Below you will find ALL our wonderful short stories, entered into the Short Story Contest, which is now closed for entries. Please read all the stories, and decide on your top story! There will be a POLL on the Facebook page of the Jodiworld Convention Group for voting, so that we can decide which is the winner.
So, grab a cuppa and some chocolate/biscuits/cheese or snack of choice, and settle back to read some really outstanding stories.
So, grab a cuppa and some chocolate/biscuits/cheese or snack of choice, and settle back to read some really outstanding stories.
Story 1. ‘What happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld’
“Remember. What’s at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld!” I’d heard that phrase many times through the day, and usually you just nod and smile and carry on working. Being a receptionist in a function hotel means you see and hear a lot, and you certainly aren’t supposed to talk about it afterwards. These are often a safe space for people to relax a bit, maybe be someone else for a few days, they don’t need to picture you taking the mickey out of them behind their backs. But this time it was said slightly different, and it was said with meaning. Almost as if it didn’t mean what it usually meant. Almost like it was an instruction, or maybe a warning? Friendly like, but still, you know, a warning.
I’m jumping ahead of myself, sorry. I do that. My name’s Lucy, I work on reception at the Hilton in Coventry. Not the arena one, the other one. We do trade shows and conferences and sometimes this type of thing. Literary conventions, fan fests, you know- a lot of people with a love of an author get together to celebrate their work (get pissed) meet the great man or woman (get pissed with them) and generally dress up and take a break from reality for a few days (get pissed in costumes). So, we were hosting one a few weeks ago called Jodiworld. For Jodi Taylor. Time travel, big golden lovely horse, horribly scary books? Not at the same time I should add, that’s 3 different series apparently. I have to hold my hands up, I hadn’t read any of her stuff but from the evangelistic guests I checked in it sounded quite interesting, and judging by the devotion her fans show she must be pretty good. I’d never been asked so many times in a day what my favourite book of hers was. Or anyone’s to be fair, this lot take reading seriously.
So anyway, I hear this hissed and I look up, because you do. Hissing usually means possible trouble in the area; small children off the lead, domestic brewing after a long car journey, you know the kind of thing. The ones you call the duty manager to deal with. There was a shortish, dumpy woman with reddish hair glaring at a rather scruffy bloke in jeans, while a tall friendly looking chap gazed aimlessly around with a vague air of interest. She caught my eye and they all wandered discreetly away. The shorter guy, let’s call him Tufty after his hair, was chuntering under his breath while the woman kept shepherding him out of earshot and away towards the bar. I noted them for later, just in case, and carried on with my shift. I hadn’t checked them in but someone else probably had, we have all desks open when we are expecting a big arrival day, especially for people who haven’t stayed before.
Telling 500 people where the pool is and what time breakfast is takes a long time. So the conference thing starts to run its usual course. There’s stuff for sale, book signings, fancy dress, guest speakers, some people looking a bit nervous, one chap in a Victorian swimsuit (there’s always one!) lost handbags and room keys and cuddly toys, (lot of mammoths and dodos this time, must ask why if I get the chance) and then THE PARTY NIGHT. Their capitals, not mine. Looking at the timetable plastered all over Reception this was another excuse for alcohol, with a band, and a big fancy dress competition in the interval. ‘Come as your favourite historical figure! Come as one of St Mary’s! Come as yourself and buy Hazel a margarita!’ Whoever Hazel was I bet she signed off the posters.
On big check ins I usually do 12- 8, it’s the busiest part of the shift and you get fed twice if the kitchen like you. I’m always very polite to the kitchen staff, they’ve saved my hungover arse with a bacon sarnie several times. My other half James works in the kitchen (another reason to be polite to them!) so I usually wait for him to finish. And staff are allowed the odd drink on site after work as long as they are well behaved and out of uniform. So, at 8pm I popped out to the staff area to get changed and ran into him looking unimpressed coming back from an unofficial fag break. ‘Some idiot has left some shed thing out the back, it’s blocking the path to the car park. We’ll all have to walk the long way round if I can’t get it moved. It wasn’t there earlier.’ ‘A shed? Someone has put a shed in the staff carpark?’ ‘I was too busy to get a proper look but yeah, it’s just sat there right on the path behind the kitchens. Weird. I’m guessing its temporary storage for this conference thingy. Annoying but hopefully it will be gone by the time I get off’. He gave me a smoky peck on the cheek and went back to his fryer or whatever it was. I don’t cook. As I‘m nosy, and the bar was rammed, (these people were taking the margarita thing very seriously, good luck Hazel, hope you packed paracetamol) I decided to take a quick look.
Sheds aren’t easy to sneak around the back of hotels and the bar would be calmer once they all moved off to the party. Like he said, it was a shed. Just a simple, plain, boring, windowless shed. I was hoping for a blue box with a cute Scottish man inside, but no such luck. It started to drizzle so I took that as a sign and made my way back to the thankfully empty hotel bar. From the volume and squeals of laughter the party had gone from everyone standing around looking self conscious to musical Sodom and Gomorrah rather quickly. Hotels prefer this oddly enough, the bar takings are good and everyone peaks early and is in bed by midnight.
I spotted our 3 mysterious strangers- Dumpy, Tufty and Vague, ambling down the corridor in what my old boss called the Act Natural walk. Tufty was in a costume now, some fake armour thing. It suited him in a weird way, he carried himself differently. He’d made an effort too, scrubbed up ok actually. Shame the hair was still sticking up. They paused at the door, some hurried conversation took place and then they went in. Something still felt a bit off, so I grabbed another drink (priorities) and slipped into the back of the room. I was greeted by a wail of feedback as someone not tech aware did something bad with a microphone and a speaker. I was happily stood about 5 feet away from Dumpy and Vague, far enough look like I was minding my own business but close enough to just catch the odd word. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and Markham’s. Please form a disreputable queue for the stage as we judge the fancy dress competition!‘ Dumpy had snorted at the intro, not sure why. Tufty turned around as he walked to the line and scowled at her. ‘As you know we are asking our competitors to not only look like their favourite character, but channel them as well. So, points for dress, but also enthusiasm and acting.’ Cue much whooping and cheering, and some muttering from my left. I caught ‘Hamlet’ ‘panto’ and ‘disaster waiting to happen’. ‘He promised Hunter’ said Vague, ‘It’s ok. What’s the worst that could happen?’.
Lots of the entrants were wearing overalls, some were carrying ladles, or dodos. (I have to read the damn books, what the hell do they have to do with things? ) There were a lot of long, curly, very ginger wigs around. Dumpy pulled at a strand of her own hair, which was a faded red with streaks of grey, and looked sadly at it. Vague put his arm around her and said something clearly meant to cheer her up, she punched him on the arm in a possibly affectionate way and they both returned their attention to the stage. It was nearly Tufty’s turn. Amongst others we had seen Elizabeth the first on a white hobby horse doing the speech from Tilbury, we had seen Cleopatra with a rubber snake down her impressive bosom, and we had seen a stabbed Julius Caesar (draped in a stolen hotel sheet I noticed, good improv but that fake blood was not going to come out.) And now our hero. I don’t know why I suddenly called him that in my head, he just suddenly seemed more in command of himself and the room. Like the armour gave him a sense of self, of presence. He stood like a lord and surveyed the room. ‘Ladies and gentlefolk, I give you Markham, as he could have been.‘ There was a sharp intake of breath from the judges table, where a blond lady in glasses in the place of honour suddenly focussed intently on him. He gave her a knowing but respectful smile and swept her a perfect courtly bow. ‘Madam, an honour and a privilege.’ The room simply erupted. Clearly that phrase means something very important to these people. He strode off the stage to the chants of Markham Markham Markham!
His 2 companions were grinning at him in disbelief. But I swear Dumpy sniffed and wiped her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. He came smugly across to the back of the hall through the crowd and watched the rest of the competition with them, but it was clear there was only going to be one winner. The prize was a t-shirt, which the blond lady signed. She asked who should she dedicate it to but he just laughed and said he never used his first name, and Markham was enough. ‘More than enough.’ muttered Dumpy, not quite under her breath. I lost them for a bit, in the dancing and singing and general party goings on. Until it turned out you can’t do the Time Warp in armour, because when you jump to the left you can trap delicate bits between the thigh plate and your leg. The step to the right didn’t happen, there was just a short howl and frantic gestures. He hobbled off with the help of his friends and they stood quietly in the shadows near me once again.
‘You know you can’t take it with you’ stated Vague, ‘it won’t work. What’s from Jodiworld stays in Jodiworld. Or any other world.’ ‘I could threaten to set fire to it? Then it wouldn’t be here any more? ‘ ‘Do you really want to do that to your prize, from her?’ He looked down and sighed. ‘No.’ They walked quietly out and I followed them. I wasn’t surprised to find they went outside and towards the staff car park. ‘Can we at least try?’ said Tufty. Vague sighed and looked at Dumpy. ‘Quickly then. Door!’ A rectangle of light appeared on the path. A voice operated shed? Seriously, where was David bloody Tennant? They looked quickly around, walked inside and the door shut. There was 30 seconds of distant heated conversation and the door opened again. I was caught in the light. ‘Hi- you were at the party, would you like a t-shirt? It’s signed by Jodi!’. He came out and gave it to me and I took it, a bit sheepishly after being seen. I heard a noise behind me and turned around, James was out for another cheeky cigarette. He smiled at me, and said ‘Great, no long walk to the car. Well done!’ I turned back and the shed had gone.
*** POSTSCRIPT
– two weeks later. I just finished book 1. Bloody Bollocking Hell. It was them. It was them!
I’m jumping ahead of myself, sorry. I do that. My name’s Lucy, I work on reception at the Hilton in Coventry. Not the arena one, the other one. We do trade shows and conferences and sometimes this type of thing. Literary conventions, fan fests, you know- a lot of people with a love of an author get together to celebrate their work (get pissed) meet the great man or woman (get pissed with them) and generally dress up and take a break from reality for a few days (get pissed in costumes). So, we were hosting one a few weeks ago called Jodiworld. For Jodi Taylor. Time travel, big golden lovely horse, horribly scary books? Not at the same time I should add, that’s 3 different series apparently. I have to hold my hands up, I hadn’t read any of her stuff but from the evangelistic guests I checked in it sounded quite interesting, and judging by the devotion her fans show she must be pretty good. I’d never been asked so many times in a day what my favourite book of hers was. Or anyone’s to be fair, this lot take reading seriously.
So anyway, I hear this hissed and I look up, because you do. Hissing usually means possible trouble in the area; small children off the lead, domestic brewing after a long car journey, you know the kind of thing. The ones you call the duty manager to deal with. There was a shortish, dumpy woman with reddish hair glaring at a rather scruffy bloke in jeans, while a tall friendly looking chap gazed aimlessly around with a vague air of interest. She caught my eye and they all wandered discreetly away. The shorter guy, let’s call him Tufty after his hair, was chuntering under his breath while the woman kept shepherding him out of earshot and away towards the bar. I noted them for later, just in case, and carried on with my shift. I hadn’t checked them in but someone else probably had, we have all desks open when we are expecting a big arrival day, especially for people who haven’t stayed before.
Telling 500 people where the pool is and what time breakfast is takes a long time. So the conference thing starts to run its usual course. There’s stuff for sale, book signings, fancy dress, guest speakers, some people looking a bit nervous, one chap in a Victorian swimsuit (there’s always one!) lost handbags and room keys and cuddly toys, (lot of mammoths and dodos this time, must ask why if I get the chance) and then THE PARTY NIGHT. Their capitals, not mine. Looking at the timetable plastered all over Reception this was another excuse for alcohol, with a band, and a big fancy dress competition in the interval. ‘Come as your favourite historical figure! Come as one of St Mary’s! Come as yourself and buy Hazel a margarita!’ Whoever Hazel was I bet she signed off the posters.
On big check ins I usually do 12- 8, it’s the busiest part of the shift and you get fed twice if the kitchen like you. I’m always very polite to the kitchen staff, they’ve saved my hungover arse with a bacon sarnie several times. My other half James works in the kitchen (another reason to be polite to them!) so I usually wait for him to finish. And staff are allowed the odd drink on site after work as long as they are well behaved and out of uniform. So, at 8pm I popped out to the staff area to get changed and ran into him looking unimpressed coming back from an unofficial fag break. ‘Some idiot has left some shed thing out the back, it’s blocking the path to the car park. We’ll all have to walk the long way round if I can’t get it moved. It wasn’t there earlier.’ ‘A shed? Someone has put a shed in the staff carpark?’ ‘I was too busy to get a proper look but yeah, it’s just sat there right on the path behind the kitchens. Weird. I’m guessing its temporary storage for this conference thingy. Annoying but hopefully it will be gone by the time I get off’. He gave me a smoky peck on the cheek and went back to his fryer or whatever it was. I don’t cook. As I‘m nosy, and the bar was rammed, (these people were taking the margarita thing very seriously, good luck Hazel, hope you packed paracetamol) I decided to take a quick look.
Sheds aren’t easy to sneak around the back of hotels and the bar would be calmer once they all moved off to the party. Like he said, it was a shed. Just a simple, plain, boring, windowless shed. I was hoping for a blue box with a cute Scottish man inside, but no such luck. It started to drizzle so I took that as a sign and made my way back to the thankfully empty hotel bar. From the volume and squeals of laughter the party had gone from everyone standing around looking self conscious to musical Sodom and Gomorrah rather quickly. Hotels prefer this oddly enough, the bar takings are good and everyone peaks early and is in bed by midnight.
I spotted our 3 mysterious strangers- Dumpy, Tufty and Vague, ambling down the corridor in what my old boss called the Act Natural walk. Tufty was in a costume now, some fake armour thing. It suited him in a weird way, he carried himself differently. He’d made an effort too, scrubbed up ok actually. Shame the hair was still sticking up. They paused at the door, some hurried conversation took place and then they went in. Something still felt a bit off, so I grabbed another drink (priorities) and slipped into the back of the room. I was greeted by a wail of feedback as someone not tech aware did something bad with a microphone and a speaker. I was happily stood about 5 feet away from Dumpy and Vague, far enough look like I was minding my own business but close enough to just catch the odd word. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and Markham’s. Please form a disreputable queue for the stage as we judge the fancy dress competition!‘ Dumpy had snorted at the intro, not sure why. Tufty turned around as he walked to the line and scowled at her. ‘As you know we are asking our competitors to not only look like their favourite character, but channel them as well. So, points for dress, but also enthusiasm and acting.’ Cue much whooping and cheering, and some muttering from my left. I caught ‘Hamlet’ ‘panto’ and ‘disaster waiting to happen’. ‘He promised Hunter’ said Vague, ‘It’s ok. What’s the worst that could happen?’.
Lots of the entrants were wearing overalls, some were carrying ladles, or dodos. (I have to read the damn books, what the hell do they have to do with things? ) There were a lot of long, curly, very ginger wigs around. Dumpy pulled at a strand of her own hair, which was a faded red with streaks of grey, and looked sadly at it. Vague put his arm around her and said something clearly meant to cheer her up, she punched him on the arm in a possibly affectionate way and they both returned their attention to the stage. It was nearly Tufty’s turn. Amongst others we had seen Elizabeth the first on a white hobby horse doing the speech from Tilbury, we had seen Cleopatra with a rubber snake down her impressive bosom, and we had seen a stabbed Julius Caesar (draped in a stolen hotel sheet I noticed, good improv but that fake blood was not going to come out.) And now our hero. I don’t know why I suddenly called him that in my head, he just suddenly seemed more in command of himself and the room. Like the armour gave him a sense of self, of presence. He stood like a lord and surveyed the room. ‘Ladies and gentlefolk, I give you Markham, as he could have been.‘ There was a sharp intake of breath from the judges table, where a blond lady in glasses in the place of honour suddenly focussed intently on him. He gave her a knowing but respectful smile and swept her a perfect courtly bow. ‘Madam, an honour and a privilege.’ The room simply erupted. Clearly that phrase means something very important to these people. He strode off the stage to the chants of Markham Markham Markham!
His 2 companions were grinning at him in disbelief. But I swear Dumpy sniffed and wiped her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. He came smugly across to the back of the hall through the crowd and watched the rest of the competition with them, but it was clear there was only going to be one winner. The prize was a t-shirt, which the blond lady signed. She asked who should she dedicate it to but he just laughed and said he never used his first name, and Markham was enough. ‘More than enough.’ muttered Dumpy, not quite under her breath. I lost them for a bit, in the dancing and singing and general party goings on. Until it turned out you can’t do the Time Warp in armour, because when you jump to the left you can trap delicate bits between the thigh plate and your leg. The step to the right didn’t happen, there was just a short howl and frantic gestures. He hobbled off with the help of his friends and they stood quietly in the shadows near me once again.
‘You know you can’t take it with you’ stated Vague, ‘it won’t work. What’s from Jodiworld stays in Jodiworld. Or any other world.’ ‘I could threaten to set fire to it? Then it wouldn’t be here any more? ‘ ‘Do you really want to do that to your prize, from her?’ He looked down and sighed. ‘No.’ They walked quietly out and I followed them. I wasn’t surprised to find they went outside and towards the staff car park. ‘Can we at least try?’ said Tufty. Vague sighed and looked at Dumpy. ‘Quickly then. Door!’ A rectangle of light appeared on the path. A voice operated shed? Seriously, where was David bloody Tennant? They looked quickly around, walked inside and the door shut. There was 30 seconds of distant heated conversation and the door opened again. I was caught in the light. ‘Hi- you were at the party, would you like a t-shirt? It’s signed by Jodi!’. He came out and gave it to me and I took it, a bit sheepishly after being seen. I heard a noise behind me and turned around, James was out for another cheeky cigarette. He smiled at me, and said ‘Great, no long walk to the car. Well done!’ I turned back and the shed had gone.
*** POSTSCRIPT
– two weeks later. I just finished book 1. Bloody Bollocking Hell. It was them. It was them!
Story 2. ‘What happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld’
““SO, that’s it, all over. What time is the bus?”
“Oh, about one. Did you enjoy it?”
“Of course I did! It was amazing. I just wish I’d been able to go to EVERYTHING – I had to miss out on so much.”
“Yes, I thought so, that’s why I came again”
“Errr … what?”
“And just wait ‘til you see NEXT year’s! That’s when Jodi is launching her new … oh, wait, shit ... was that a black cloak over there?”
“Wait - what?”
“Yes, definitely! There, by the bar! Gotta go. See you next year, and don’t tell anyone you saw me, OK?
“Oh, about one. Did you enjoy it?”
“Of course I did! It was amazing. I just wish I’d been able to go to EVERYTHING – I had to miss out on so much.”
“Yes, I thought so, that’s why I came again”
“Errr … what?”
“And just wait ‘til you see NEXT year’s! That’s when Jodi is launching her new … oh, wait, shit ... was that a black cloak over there?”
“Wait - what?”
“Yes, definitely! There, by the bar! Gotta go. See you next year, and don’t tell anyone you saw me, OK?
Story 3.
Sent to Coventry to share - A true story about travelling across Time and Space
About thirty years ago, I attended a Storytelling party at Sidmouth Folk Festival. There were many professional storytellers there, and I got talking with a woman called Sheila Fisher. She was a tidy, 40ish woman with greying hair and a lovely smile, speaking in a lilting accent which seemed a rich blend of Irish and Scottish. She was very happy, having just won the annual storytelling competition. I asked her "What was the greatest gift you have received from your storytelling experience?"
She held up the small flint arrowhead hanging from a cord around her neck. "There are three of these in this room tonight, and I have care of this'un," she replied with delight. "Altogether, there are only five of these in the world. They are entrusted to the five finest storytellers of their generation, and are very ancient. They were made by the Lakota Indians of North America, who are the tribe of the Sioux Nation which has responsibility for protecting and preserving the spiritual heritage of the Sioux. When I reach the end of me storytelling career, I shall pass this arrowhead on, along with all me stories, to someone I trust to continue the Old Ways."
"How did you come to have this?" I asked, intrigued, and she laughed.
"Well," she said, "I have always been a storyteller, along with the other women of me family. We come from a particular group of travelling people, all very close family, we've always moved between Northern Ireland and Scotland. A few years ago, a member of our family was invited to speak at an International Conference in America, held between travelling peoples around the world, to discuss border-crossings, passports and nationality issues. As I was the eldest daughter of our family, it was decided I should attend."
'To me astonishment, I found meself sitting at the oval table in the State Dining Room of the White House in Washington DC, chaired by the Vice-President Al Gore. All around the oval table were representatives of travelling peoples, dressed in their traditional ceremonial costumes, Lapplanders and Siberian reindeer herders sweating in embroidered reindeer skins. Eskimos in sealskins, North American Indians, Romanies, Mongolian horse herders and Masai cattlemen, Kalahari Bushmen, Polynesians in feather cloaks, Australian Aborigines and many others I didn't recognise. And there was little old me, wearing a borrowed wee black frock, and wondering why I was there. I decided to keep very quiet and listen politely to the men sitting on either side of me – which is a tricksy thing for a woman like me to do!'
'The first half of the banquet was fine, as I listened to the lawyer sitting to me left telling me how important he was. But I was scared silly of when I was supposed to turn around and talk with the person sitting to me right. I had noticed him as soon as we all arrived, and he was the scariest and most magnificent man I'd ever seen.'
'He must have been well over six feet tall, but was made a lot taller by the enormous eagle-feathered war bonnet he was wearing on his head. The waitresses kept tripping over the feather tails of his headdress, which trailed onto the polished floor behind his chair. He was wearing soft golden buckskin jacket and trousers, with long fringing, and buckles and buttons of turquoise. He smelled better than the food.
His hair was snow-white, bound into long plaits on either side of his head. His skin was an astonishing copper-red colour, and his nose was large and hooked like an eagle's beak. Laughter-lines crinkled around his eyes, which when he slowly turned his head and looked straight at me, were as brilliant a blue as the turquoises he wore.'
'He looked straight down at me, and spoke, in English, saying "So why are you here?" I was quite overcome, and because I was so nervous, I started to babble.
I said "Well, I'm not sure, really, but it might be because someone from my family was invited to this conference. We are a travelling people, always have been, taking boats between Northern Ireland and Scotland. We carry beef-cattle, potatoes, coal, sometimes barrels of whisky and other things. We allus tried to make crossings without paying fares, so we do have troubles with passports and the like.'
'These days, there are not many of us. The women of my family have always been, sort of, in charge, kind of thing. We make the decisions about moving, and crossing the water. We arrange the Weddings and Christenings, sort of quietly Christian I suppose. We attend the churches with the best sing. We have a lot of songs, everyone in the family sings, we have songs of our own, in our own language, mostly an old Gaelic language.'
'Although, because it's the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter who makes the decisions, I'm the eldest daughter of my mother, she is a sort of Queen, or Chief I suppose. We even have our own secret language which only the eldest daughters learn. Never men..."'
'Then I realised that I had said too much, so I went quiet. He had been looking at me all along. Then he spoke. He said "Speak to me in that language." So I did.'
'And then he replied to me in the same language!'
'We began to talk, and although we had different accents, we understood each other very well. He told me: "This is the secret, sacred language which only the Chief and the eldest son of the Chief learn, father to son. Never women. We have always made the decisions for those around us, when to travel, when to stay. We too all have songs we sing, and we too prefer attending the Christian churches which have a good sing! We are Oglala Lakota, we live in both the USA and Canada, so we were invited to this conference, and I knew that there would be messages for us. I had not imagined that those messages would be in our own language."'
'Then he stood up, full height, and, oh my, he was tall, with that feathered warbonnet falling open like a halo around him. Everyone in the room turned to look at him, and stopped talking. He looked across the huge room, to a man sitting one person to the left of the Vice President of America, and called out in our language, saying 'My son, come over here to me. Here is a woman whom you have to meet. She speaks the same language that we do."'
'The tall young man stood up, and walked smoothly around the table to his father, and knelt between us. He had the same glossy copper skin and piercing turquoise eyes as his father. His hair was blue-black, bound back in two long plaits, and he wore a crisp tuxedo and bow tie. Braw as a film star. He turned to me, and smiled, with gleaming white teeth, and began to talk to me in our language.'
'I can't remember the rest of the banquet. The three of us talked and laughed, and even sang the same song together at one point. I do remember wondering how many of the native people present had understood the Chief's call to his son.'
'We met up the next day, and I went to stay with them at their family home, just a shack on a horse ranch, one of several they moved between, huge distances apart.
I told them my stories, and learned as many of theirs as I could. Before I left, a very old man gave me this precious Arrowhead.'
'I do not understand what all this is about. All I know is that there are good friends to meet, in many surprising places, all over the world. So long as we can keep talking to each other, and telling our own stories for others to listen to, that there is a purpose to humankind. I am very lucky to have learned that.'"
So, because Sheila gave me permission to tell this story as often as possible, I have finally written it down and told it to you. It is the best story I ever heard, and deserves to be shared between as many people as possible. Perhaps one day that secret language will be the one language we can all learn, so that everyone on this precious, tiny little planet, can talk and listen to everyone else when we share our stories.
She held up the small flint arrowhead hanging from a cord around her neck. "There are three of these in this room tonight, and I have care of this'un," she replied with delight. "Altogether, there are only five of these in the world. They are entrusted to the five finest storytellers of their generation, and are very ancient. They were made by the Lakota Indians of North America, who are the tribe of the Sioux Nation which has responsibility for protecting and preserving the spiritual heritage of the Sioux. When I reach the end of me storytelling career, I shall pass this arrowhead on, along with all me stories, to someone I trust to continue the Old Ways."
"How did you come to have this?" I asked, intrigued, and she laughed.
"Well," she said, "I have always been a storyteller, along with the other women of me family. We come from a particular group of travelling people, all very close family, we've always moved between Northern Ireland and Scotland. A few years ago, a member of our family was invited to speak at an International Conference in America, held between travelling peoples around the world, to discuss border-crossings, passports and nationality issues. As I was the eldest daughter of our family, it was decided I should attend."
'To me astonishment, I found meself sitting at the oval table in the State Dining Room of the White House in Washington DC, chaired by the Vice-President Al Gore. All around the oval table were representatives of travelling peoples, dressed in their traditional ceremonial costumes, Lapplanders and Siberian reindeer herders sweating in embroidered reindeer skins. Eskimos in sealskins, North American Indians, Romanies, Mongolian horse herders and Masai cattlemen, Kalahari Bushmen, Polynesians in feather cloaks, Australian Aborigines and many others I didn't recognise. And there was little old me, wearing a borrowed wee black frock, and wondering why I was there. I decided to keep very quiet and listen politely to the men sitting on either side of me – which is a tricksy thing for a woman like me to do!'
'The first half of the banquet was fine, as I listened to the lawyer sitting to me left telling me how important he was. But I was scared silly of when I was supposed to turn around and talk with the person sitting to me right. I had noticed him as soon as we all arrived, and he was the scariest and most magnificent man I'd ever seen.'
'He must have been well over six feet tall, but was made a lot taller by the enormous eagle-feathered war bonnet he was wearing on his head. The waitresses kept tripping over the feather tails of his headdress, which trailed onto the polished floor behind his chair. He was wearing soft golden buckskin jacket and trousers, with long fringing, and buckles and buttons of turquoise. He smelled better than the food.
His hair was snow-white, bound into long plaits on either side of his head. His skin was an astonishing copper-red colour, and his nose was large and hooked like an eagle's beak. Laughter-lines crinkled around his eyes, which when he slowly turned his head and looked straight at me, were as brilliant a blue as the turquoises he wore.'
'He looked straight down at me, and spoke, in English, saying "So why are you here?" I was quite overcome, and because I was so nervous, I started to babble.
I said "Well, I'm not sure, really, but it might be because someone from my family was invited to this conference. We are a travelling people, always have been, taking boats between Northern Ireland and Scotland. We carry beef-cattle, potatoes, coal, sometimes barrels of whisky and other things. We allus tried to make crossings without paying fares, so we do have troubles with passports and the like.'
'These days, there are not many of us. The women of my family have always been, sort of, in charge, kind of thing. We make the decisions about moving, and crossing the water. We arrange the Weddings and Christenings, sort of quietly Christian I suppose. We attend the churches with the best sing. We have a lot of songs, everyone in the family sings, we have songs of our own, in our own language, mostly an old Gaelic language.'
'Although, because it's the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter who makes the decisions, I'm the eldest daughter of my mother, she is a sort of Queen, or Chief I suppose. We even have our own secret language which only the eldest daughters learn. Never men..."'
'Then I realised that I had said too much, so I went quiet. He had been looking at me all along. Then he spoke. He said "Speak to me in that language." So I did.'
'And then he replied to me in the same language!'
'We began to talk, and although we had different accents, we understood each other very well. He told me: "This is the secret, sacred language which only the Chief and the eldest son of the Chief learn, father to son. Never women. We have always made the decisions for those around us, when to travel, when to stay. We too all have songs we sing, and we too prefer attending the Christian churches which have a good sing! We are Oglala Lakota, we live in both the USA and Canada, so we were invited to this conference, and I knew that there would be messages for us. I had not imagined that those messages would be in our own language."'
'Then he stood up, full height, and, oh my, he was tall, with that feathered warbonnet falling open like a halo around him. Everyone in the room turned to look at him, and stopped talking. He looked across the huge room, to a man sitting one person to the left of the Vice President of America, and called out in our language, saying 'My son, come over here to me. Here is a woman whom you have to meet. She speaks the same language that we do."'
'The tall young man stood up, and walked smoothly around the table to his father, and knelt between us. He had the same glossy copper skin and piercing turquoise eyes as his father. His hair was blue-black, bound back in two long plaits, and he wore a crisp tuxedo and bow tie. Braw as a film star. He turned to me, and smiled, with gleaming white teeth, and began to talk to me in our language.'
'I can't remember the rest of the banquet. The three of us talked and laughed, and even sang the same song together at one point. I do remember wondering how many of the native people present had understood the Chief's call to his son.'
'We met up the next day, and I went to stay with them at their family home, just a shack on a horse ranch, one of several they moved between, huge distances apart.
I told them my stories, and learned as many of theirs as I could. Before I left, a very old man gave me this precious Arrowhead.'
'I do not understand what all this is about. All I know is that there are good friends to meet, in many surprising places, all over the world. So long as we can keep talking to each other, and telling our own stories for others to listen to, that there is a purpose to humankind. I am very lucky to have learned that.'"
So, because Sheila gave me permission to tell this story as often as possible, I have finally written it down and told it to you. It is the best story I ever heard, and deserves to be shared between as many people as possible. Perhaps one day that secret language will be the one language we can all learn, so that everyone on this precious, tiny little planet, can talk and listen to everyone else when we share our stories.
Story 4. Sent to Serve the Earls of Coventry?
Croome Court in Worcestershire was owned by the Coventry family since the 16th century. Croome has a fascinating history. The Coventrys used their wealth – from successes as statesmen and lawyers, from colonial connections, slavery and advantageous marriages – to create this magnificent stately home.
The 6th Earl of Coventry, an 18th-century trend-setter collaborated with the best new talent of the day – Robert Adam and Lancelot 'Capability' Brown – to create a grand house, on the site of the family's earlier home, and one of the most innovative designed landscapes in Britain. Now it is leased to and managed by the National Trust.
Before that, it was sold off to pay the Coventry family debts and taxes. It was a secret wartime airbase, a boys' school, then bought by the Hari Krishnas. After the Krishnas left, and Manpower Services had failed to run it as a training school, it failed as apartments, a golf course and an hotel. I worked at Croome Court during the mad phase of it being an Hotel - with only 3 bedrooms.
My job was 'General Factotum' - which was doing all the jobs other people forgot to do. Every evening I closed the 12 foot high shutters on all of the 80 windows, and opened them every morning. I helped with publicity. I greeted guests and served coffee. During Christmas Lunch, I slipped and fell upwards on the flight of chipped and worn stone stairs from the kitchen below. I was carrying two full jugs of Cona Coffee, which smashed. I damaged my spine. They made me stand up to do all the washing up for 50 people in the vast troughs of sinks, weeping in pain. I don't know why I didn't refuse, but I wanted to be part of a team with the staff, whom I generally liked.
The Mad Hotel all fell apart after a few months.
Armed Police arrived when Gamekeeper tried to shoot the 'Owner' for unpaid wages - we all eventually left with unpaid wages. The Manager ran off with all the cases of brandy and champagne. The 'Owner's' daughter's horses were sold to the knacker. Bailiffs came in and seized the till whilst I was on Reception. I managed to prevent the magnificent marble fireplaces being sold by loudly and publicly declaring to the 'Owner' that they were part of the Grade 1 fixtures and fittings. The 'Owner' was investigated by the Fraud Squad on behalf of the Bulgarian Government, as he had used Bulgarian money to buy the house for use as a failed video-copying business. And there were ghosts.
Who needs ghosts when all that reality is already happening? Ghosts were an added extra spice...
The Stable-girl smelled tobacco from a pipe every night as she shut up the horses, as some Groom had always done in the past, his footsteps echoing hers around the Stableyard.
The vast tapestry portrait of the Coventry family rippled in draughts, and the life-size Coventrys moved and stared coldly at us scurrying far below.
One evening, the staff were all squeezed into my large, cold and lofty bedroom, drinking my home-made Elderberry wine, as we had no money to buy booze. We had not invited the aggressive foul-mouthed Chef, or the drunk and stoned Banqueting Manager, as none of us liked them at all.
I asked whether anyone else had seen the ghost in the Reception Hall?
Silence fell for a few moments, then the Waitress asked "You mean the one that stands by the front window?"
"The girl in the long nightie" agreed the Gamekeeper.
"More a high-waisted Jane Austen-kind of white dress?" asked the Stablegirl.
"She is really young, maybe only 11 or 12" the Barman pointed out.
"You know that is the only window in the entire house from which you can actually see the front Gatehouse?" observed the Cleaner.
"Where she always stands is very cold – they put a big radiator there, but even when it is full on, it is still the coldest place in the house" remarked the Housekeeper.
We all looked around the room at each other, and realised that everyone there had seen the same ghost in the same place.
I thought about this, and agreed. "I read the History of the House, and one of the daughters of an Earl of Coventry, the Seventh Earl I think, about 1800, died young. Perhaps it is the ghost of that little girl, waiting for the coach bringing her family home to look after her."
We all nodded and had another drink.
I do not understand why some people are so scared of ghosts. To me, ghosts are caught in the corners of the eye, in mirrors, moving in shadows, flickering. Just as you always know someone else is in the room with you, so they were. Ghosts do bring a bone-chilling cold with them, as though they have sucked out all the energy nearby to appear, thus the radiator in that ghost's haunting space. They are not usually interested in living people, they are lost in their own time, in a place they loved to be. I would not like to 'haunt', but I would like to appear now and then to bless or congratulate my loved ones.
The 6th Earl of Coventry, an 18th-century trend-setter collaborated with the best new talent of the day – Robert Adam and Lancelot 'Capability' Brown – to create a grand house, on the site of the family's earlier home, and one of the most innovative designed landscapes in Britain. Now it is leased to and managed by the National Trust.
Before that, it was sold off to pay the Coventry family debts and taxes. It was a secret wartime airbase, a boys' school, then bought by the Hari Krishnas. After the Krishnas left, and Manpower Services had failed to run it as a training school, it failed as apartments, a golf course and an hotel. I worked at Croome Court during the mad phase of it being an Hotel - with only 3 bedrooms.
My job was 'General Factotum' - which was doing all the jobs other people forgot to do. Every evening I closed the 12 foot high shutters on all of the 80 windows, and opened them every morning. I helped with publicity. I greeted guests and served coffee. During Christmas Lunch, I slipped and fell upwards on the flight of chipped and worn stone stairs from the kitchen below. I was carrying two full jugs of Cona Coffee, which smashed. I damaged my spine. They made me stand up to do all the washing up for 50 people in the vast troughs of sinks, weeping in pain. I don't know why I didn't refuse, but I wanted to be part of a team with the staff, whom I generally liked.
The Mad Hotel all fell apart after a few months.
Armed Police arrived when Gamekeeper tried to shoot the 'Owner' for unpaid wages - we all eventually left with unpaid wages. The Manager ran off with all the cases of brandy and champagne. The 'Owner's' daughter's horses were sold to the knacker. Bailiffs came in and seized the till whilst I was on Reception. I managed to prevent the magnificent marble fireplaces being sold by loudly and publicly declaring to the 'Owner' that they were part of the Grade 1 fixtures and fittings. The 'Owner' was investigated by the Fraud Squad on behalf of the Bulgarian Government, as he had used Bulgarian money to buy the house for use as a failed video-copying business. And there were ghosts.
Who needs ghosts when all that reality is already happening? Ghosts were an added extra spice...
The Stable-girl smelled tobacco from a pipe every night as she shut up the horses, as some Groom had always done in the past, his footsteps echoing hers around the Stableyard.
The vast tapestry portrait of the Coventry family rippled in draughts, and the life-size Coventrys moved and stared coldly at us scurrying far below.
One evening, the staff were all squeezed into my large, cold and lofty bedroom, drinking my home-made Elderberry wine, as we had no money to buy booze. We had not invited the aggressive foul-mouthed Chef, or the drunk and stoned Banqueting Manager, as none of us liked them at all.
I asked whether anyone else had seen the ghost in the Reception Hall?
Silence fell for a few moments, then the Waitress asked "You mean the one that stands by the front window?"
"The girl in the long nightie" agreed the Gamekeeper.
"More a high-waisted Jane Austen-kind of white dress?" asked the Stablegirl.
"She is really young, maybe only 11 or 12" the Barman pointed out.
"You know that is the only window in the entire house from which you can actually see the front Gatehouse?" observed the Cleaner.
"Where she always stands is very cold – they put a big radiator there, but even when it is full on, it is still the coldest place in the house" remarked the Housekeeper.
We all looked around the room at each other, and realised that everyone there had seen the same ghost in the same place.
I thought about this, and agreed. "I read the History of the House, and one of the daughters of an Earl of Coventry, the Seventh Earl I think, about 1800, died young. Perhaps it is the ghost of that little girl, waiting for the coach bringing her family home to look after her."
We all nodded and had another drink.
I do not understand why some people are so scared of ghosts. To me, ghosts are caught in the corners of the eye, in mirrors, moving in shadows, flickering. Just as you always know someone else is in the room with you, so they were. Ghosts do bring a bone-chilling cold with them, as though they have sucked out all the energy nearby to appear, thus the radiator in that ghost's haunting space. They are not usually interested in living people, they are lost in their own time, in a place they loved to be. I would not like to 'haunt', but I would like to appear now and then to bless or congratulate my loved ones.
Story 5. Sent to Coventry
Martin was already awake when his alarm went off. While he had grown accustomed to sleeping through the sounds of war, the silence caused by the ceasefire – the first in the decades the war had raged – was something his brain was still unable to process. His sleep – already under strain due to the negotiated peace – just couldn’t cope with the additional fear that came from silence. A silence that he, and his people had learned from experience was a precursor to a ground invasion and the almost complete destruction of a planetary population.
He finally rose and ate a hurried breakfast, despite being awake early, he had continued to lie there in a reflective mood, knowing it would be the last time he would gaze out of the window to his favourite view of the rolling hills and valleys, interspersed with the streams and mini waterfalls of his home. His final action before leaving his room was to check he had his datastick in a secure pocket – filled with memories to help him on the final leg of his journey.
Martin considered his peoples history. After years of wars and division, peace had finally held long enough for us to look to the stars and settle the nearby planets – thus relieving some of the planetary tensions. We proliferated and expanded outwards, meeting a galaxy empty of life and as the centuries passed, our original warlike tendencies had been reduced so that we were completely unprepared when the enemy finally appeared.
First Contact occurred on a newly terraformed and inhabited planet. The population was only just large enough to lay the agricultural foundations for the second group of colonists. Technology was limited and when communication failed, a relief ship was diverted to determine why. They discovered an empty planet, with no survivors and no evidence of what had occurred there. Their last report was that they were going to investigate an anomalous reading coming from one of the smaller non-habitable planets in the system.
A year later, another newly found colony reported ships approaching after which nothing else was heard from them. A fast ship was immediately dispatched, and again found a colony bereft of survivors and nothing to suggest why, though there was evidence to suggest that a mass slaughter had occurred. After that, we reverted to our historical behaviours and started military production. The might of a hundred planetary systems was all focused on creating a fleet to defend our homes and people, to find the enemy that seemed to care only for our death and destruction.
More and more colonies came under attack while the central planets were ramping up their military production. By now the enemy had killed millions of people, mostly in new colonies with limited technology to either report or defend themselves. We later found out that each colony attacked by the enemy had fought to the death, there were no survivors nor prisoners.
After years of outright slaughter and just as we were ready to launch our fleet to seek them, the enemy tried to make overtures of peace, but our populace refused to even consider it, and after generations of peace, war was once again declared, only this time against an alien outsider.
Martin realised that at the time his people had no idea what they would be up against when the war started and despite all evidence were still surprised at the ferociousness and relentlessness of the enemy. They accepted all their losses and came back stronger than ever. There was no stopping them, and while bombs rained down destroying colonies as well as more advanced planetary systems, we had never managed to advance far enough to locate the enemy home planets.
The fact that peace deal was finally offered came as no surprise. We were losing and losing badly. The shock was that the offer came from the enemy – after they had inflicted another major defeat on the forces protecting one of the nearer centralised planets. By now the enemy were closing in on the centre of the empire, and the original home planet of Martin and his people so when an emissary arrived waving a white flag in an unarmed shuttle, there was shock and fear.
They met on an uninhabited moon – in case it was a trap – and The Offer was made. This was met with disgust and the terms rejected out of hand. Better to die free than submit any of our people to such an ignominious end, was the immediate response. But as the enemy waited for an answer and their ships grew closer and closer to our home planet, the cradle of our civilisation and home to billions of us. There was no other option available. We have no choice was the message from the government.
The media tried to sell the Offer to the general populace – the sacrifice of a few to ensure the continued prosperity and survival of the many. Those chosen by lottery would be honoured, remembered forever and their families rewarded for their loss. And once the lottery was declared and the “winners” announced, the people moved on. The few families impacted by this were side-lined and ignored – apart from being honoured and rewarded - and everyone else gave a huge sigh of relief as we all understood that finally, we would be able to live our lives as once we had before. Finally, we would be able to plan for our futures and that of our children. Finally, there would be peace and to hell with the cost.
Peace in our time, as we all knew from our history, has a way of turning in to war again and again. But the decision had been overwhelmingly accepted and the Lottery created to pick those unlucky few who would be chosen to pay the ultimate price for our people’s future. Two thousand and forty-eight young people chosen at random from the population. The criteria were set (some by the enemy) – no-one sick or dying, no one with children (which started a baby boom the likes of which had never before been seen), no-one past their prime, and no-one that was still an adolescent. This still left billions from which to choose, and it was eventually agreed that this was a cheap price to pay. Cheap for everyone, except for those chosen, of which Martin was one.
As he heard the engines of the shuttle landing. he left his home, neither his family nor his friends were there to see him off. He was all alone, and unsure whether this was preferable to having to see his loved ones, one last time. As Martin walked slowly towards the shuttle craft, he thought of the past few months – since he had been the first person chosen. He had enjoyed every type of vice and debauchery available but even that palled after a while when he started to see the same look in the faces of everyone around him. The look that had forced him into seclusion until the transport arrived. The look that made him grateful his family and friends were not there to see him off – pity, sadness, grief but over all those relief. Relief that they hadn’t been chosen, relief that it was not them.
From here he would be taken to the capital city to join the other lottery “winners” who had been arriving from their home planets since being chosen. They would make one final broadcast to the people a transmission that would be seen by billions throughout the galaxy.
Martin had already been given his list of acceptable phrases – an honour to sacrifice, the future of our people, and of course peace in our time. The others would also have their own catchphrases, this was a joyous moment and not to be ruined by one of the lottery winners spewing forth on what we had really agreed.
As he entered the shuttle, he turned to look one last time at the house – it wasn’t much but it was the only home he had known for his entire, all too short, life. Steeling himself, he walked up the steps and was met by his minder, Lorian – the government functionary who had been assigned to him from the moment he had been picked and who, except for last night, had been by his side continually. She greeted him without making eye contact, something to which he was now resigned, and ushered him to his seat. The next few days passed in a whirlwind of publicity and farewells. The crowds were everywhere, as people wanted a story to tell their grandkids – now that it looked like they would survive to tell them. But Martin didn’t care. He tried to converse with the other lottery winners, but to no avail. They had nothing in common except being chosen as a sacrifice, most of them were also suffering the months of debauchery that they had mostly all chosen so as to avoid thinking about their non-existent futures. They shared their bitterness at fate, their hatred and revulsion of the enemy but also their disgust at their own people for so readily agreeing to the terms of peace.
In the home of Earths central planetary government, everything had been prepared for this historic and momentous day as the ship arrived. The sacrifices were led down to a tremendous applause from the people, and immediately brought to the lab already prepared to use their cells to force grow clones where they would immediately be dispatched to the abattoir to be sold as a delicacy to anyone who could afford it.
Martin stared around – hooked up to life support as more and more clones of his were grown and slaughtered – wishing that he had never been sent to Coventry.
He finally rose and ate a hurried breakfast, despite being awake early, he had continued to lie there in a reflective mood, knowing it would be the last time he would gaze out of the window to his favourite view of the rolling hills and valleys, interspersed with the streams and mini waterfalls of his home. His final action before leaving his room was to check he had his datastick in a secure pocket – filled with memories to help him on the final leg of his journey.
Martin considered his peoples history. After years of wars and division, peace had finally held long enough for us to look to the stars and settle the nearby planets – thus relieving some of the planetary tensions. We proliferated and expanded outwards, meeting a galaxy empty of life and as the centuries passed, our original warlike tendencies had been reduced so that we were completely unprepared when the enemy finally appeared.
First Contact occurred on a newly terraformed and inhabited planet. The population was only just large enough to lay the agricultural foundations for the second group of colonists. Technology was limited and when communication failed, a relief ship was diverted to determine why. They discovered an empty planet, with no survivors and no evidence of what had occurred there. Their last report was that they were going to investigate an anomalous reading coming from one of the smaller non-habitable planets in the system.
A year later, another newly found colony reported ships approaching after which nothing else was heard from them. A fast ship was immediately dispatched, and again found a colony bereft of survivors and nothing to suggest why, though there was evidence to suggest that a mass slaughter had occurred. After that, we reverted to our historical behaviours and started military production. The might of a hundred planetary systems was all focused on creating a fleet to defend our homes and people, to find the enemy that seemed to care only for our death and destruction.
More and more colonies came under attack while the central planets were ramping up their military production. By now the enemy had killed millions of people, mostly in new colonies with limited technology to either report or defend themselves. We later found out that each colony attacked by the enemy had fought to the death, there were no survivors nor prisoners.
After years of outright slaughter and just as we were ready to launch our fleet to seek them, the enemy tried to make overtures of peace, but our populace refused to even consider it, and after generations of peace, war was once again declared, only this time against an alien outsider.
Martin realised that at the time his people had no idea what they would be up against when the war started and despite all evidence were still surprised at the ferociousness and relentlessness of the enemy. They accepted all their losses and came back stronger than ever. There was no stopping them, and while bombs rained down destroying colonies as well as more advanced planetary systems, we had never managed to advance far enough to locate the enemy home planets.
The fact that peace deal was finally offered came as no surprise. We were losing and losing badly. The shock was that the offer came from the enemy – after they had inflicted another major defeat on the forces protecting one of the nearer centralised planets. By now the enemy were closing in on the centre of the empire, and the original home planet of Martin and his people so when an emissary arrived waving a white flag in an unarmed shuttle, there was shock and fear.
They met on an uninhabited moon – in case it was a trap – and The Offer was made. This was met with disgust and the terms rejected out of hand. Better to die free than submit any of our people to such an ignominious end, was the immediate response. But as the enemy waited for an answer and their ships grew closer and closer to our home planet, the cradle of our civilisation and home to billions of us. There was no other option available. We have no choice was the message from the government.
The media tried to sell the Offer to the general populace – the sacrifice of a few to ensure the continued prosperity and survival of the many. Those chosen by lottery would be honoured, remembered forever and their families rewarded for their loss. And once the lottery was declared and the “winners” announced, the people moved on. The few families impacted by this were side-lined and ignored – apart from being honoured and rewarded - and everyone else gave a huge sigh of relief as we all understood that finally, we would be able to live our lives as once we had before. Finally, we would be able to plan for our futures and that of our children. Finally, there would be peace and to hell with the cost.
Peace in our time, as we all knew from our history, has a way of turning in to war again and again. But the decision had been overwhelmingly accepted and the Lottery created to pick those unlucky few who would be chosen to pay the ultimate price for our people’s future. Two thousand and forty-eight young people chosen at random from the population. The criteria were set (some by the enemy) – no-one sick or dying, no one with children (which started a baby boom the likes of which had never before been seen), no-one past their prime, and no-one that was still an adolescent. This still left billions from which to choose, and it was eventually agreed that this was a cheap price to pay. Cheap for everyone, except for those chosen, of which Martin was one.
As he heard the engines of the shuttle landing. he left his home, neither his family nor his friends were there to see him off. He was all alone, and unsure whether this was preferable to having to see his loved ones, one last time. As Martin walked slowly towards the shuttle craft, he thought of the past few months – since he had been the first person chosen. He had enjoyed every type of vice and debauchery available but even that palled after a while when he started to see the same look in the faces of everyone around him. The look that had forced him into seclusion until the transport arrived. The look that made him grateful his family and friends were not there to see him off – pity, sadness, grief but over all those relief. Relief that they hadn’t been chosen, relief that it was not them.
From here he would be taken to the capital city to join the other lottery “winners” who had been arriving from their home planets since being chosen. They would make one final broadcast to the people a transmission that would be seen by billions throughout the galaxy.
Martin had already been given his list of acceptable phrases – an honour to sacrifice, the future of our people, and of course peace in our time. The others would also have their own catchphrases, this was a joyous moment and not to be ruined by one of the lottery winners spewing forth on what we had really agreed.
As he entered the shuttle, he turned to look one last time at the house – it wasn’t much but it was the only home he had known for his entire, all too short, life. Steeling himself, he walked up the steps and was met by his minder, Lorian – the government functionary who had been assigned to him from the moment he had been picked and who, except for last night, had been by his side continually. She greeted him without making eye contact, something to which he was now resigned, and ushered him to his seat. The next few days passed in a whirlwind of publicity and farewells. The crowds were everywhere, as people wanted a story to tell their grandkids – now that it looked like they would survive to tell them. But Martin didn’t care. He tried to converse with the other lottery winners, but to no avail. They had nothing in common except being chosen as a sacrifice, most of them were also suffering the months of debauchery that they had mostly all chosen so as to avoid thinking about their non-existent futures. They shared their bitterness at fate, their hatred and revulsion of the enemy but also their disgust at their own people for so readily agreeing to the terms of peace.
In the home of Earths central planetary government, everything had been prepared for this historic and momentous day as the ship arrived. The sacrifices were led down to a tremendous applause from the people, and immediately brought to the lab already prepared to use their cells to force grow clones where they would immediately be dispatched to the abattoir to be sold as a delicacy to anyone who could afford it.
Martin stared around – hooked up to life support as more and more clones of his were grown and slaughtered – wishing that he had never been sent to Coventry.
Story 6.
Sent to Coventry and what happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld
On a bright autumnal evening, I found myself standing on the beautiful roof top garden of a London book publisher looking down at the kaleidoscopic view of the Victoria embankment. Why you may ask? You see, I was attending the select and intimate birthday party of Jodi Taylor, one of the best fantasy and time travel authors of our time. Alongside her 70th birthday celebration she was also launching her latest Time Police masterpiece 'About Time', and it was! We had all been holding our breath for this newest instalment. It was with some trepidation and anticipation that I was lucky enough to be introduced to the lady herself her by publisher and friend Hazel. It was a relaxed affair and Jodi was very approachable. We had several photos taken together. She was such a down to earth 'normal' person, not how you would expect a world famous author to be. It was while I was looking at in the breathtaking illuminated view of the London skyline, that I met Karin, a fellow fan who spoke of her ambition to arrange a weekend of fun and celebration; a convention with like minded people to celebrate all things Jodi...and thus the seeds were sown.
Fast forward (or time slip) 8 months and we embarked on the 200 mile, three and a half hour journey to the Coventry hotel that for a whole weekend would be JodiWorld. Despite our best intentions, the moronic Google maps bitch decided to take us on a wild goose chase along the 'scenic route', down lanes so small the hedge hugged the car (rather too tightly at times!) and just for jollies she even threw in a couple of farmyards! (but still no illusive goose!). At last we found the hotel with the assistance of a hard to miss 5ft blue teapot sign, its spout pointing us in the right direction. Eventually we pulled into the hotel driveway tired, gooseless but excited, for the days to come and our adventure at JodiWorld!
After checking into our rooms, we crutched it down to the bar and sunk into comfy chairs to scrutinize the programme of planned atrocities, ahem...I mean activities, starting with a 2pm welcome and an 'ice breaker' quiz to kick things off. After we had all shown what complete know it all's we are, it’s time for some detective work. The fun will commence with a cup of JT Tips tea for those who wished to partake, (coffee for the rest eww!) followed by a cut throat chocolate biscuits treasure hunt. Next up, it’s time to rest and digest those chocolate biscuits while listening to Jodi reading extracts from her latest book. Later, it will be time to share a leg, in the three legged 'don't spill the tea race' (health and safety gonna love this one!). Following on there’s a fancy dress contest, short story competition and Saturday night is party night, whoop! whoop! St Mary's Research and Development Team were also setting up various displays, the centrepiece of which was a unique prosthetic beak which (they claimed), has been specially made for an injured dodo!!
At the grand opening Jodi was somewhat overwhelmed "I cant quite believe that this is all for real" she said with what I would later realise, was an all knowing smile. I was anxious when the activities started as I'm not a fan of crowds. My hesitance was short lived as we were welcomed like kindred spirits and soon we were conversing with strangers as if we were lifelong friends.
Everyone had really got into the swing of the occasion. There was actually a St. Mary's recruitment stand and even the Time Police were represented by a lady wearing a mask covering half of her face, masquerading as Commander Hay, I assume? The wearing of dungarees seemed to be de rigueur; all departments were represented and the colour worn dictated the wearer's chosen department. There was a lady, short of stature with flaming red hair and dressed in blue overalls, (standard attire for historians) and she would only answer to the name of Max. A chicken was strutting around, presumably Angus? She was happy to be photographed, especially with those people she had chosen to crap on. Overall (or dungaree all) the atmosphere was welcoming, inclusive and fun and we were looking forward to the following days frolics.
Come Saturday morning, I ordered our breakfast drinks, Helen her usual tea, me coffee (I only drink tea when I feel unwell). On expressing our breakfast preference, an immediate, deafening silence spread over everyone in the restaurant. The pin drop silence only lasted a matter of seconds but the menacing foreboding lasted much longer and made me extremely edgy and uneasy. I could feel the eyes of the other diners giving me captious and disparaging looks but when they observed me looking they quickly returned to their eating and conversations.
The day continued with the full programme of activities but I felt ostracized by the other guests. I tried to engage them in conversation and although no one said anything pernicious or derogatory to me, from breakfast onwards I felt shunned, it was like I just didn't exist, I was invisible, I was ignored. I would have said I'd been sent to Coventry...if I wasn't already there!!
Helen, though seemed oblivious to it all and was thoroughly enjoying herself, wearing a dodo costume that she had spent months making. However she just couldn't wait for the fancy dress contest and had decided to wear it for the duration of the weekend, which by itself would have been funny enough, but the thing is, Helen walks with two elbow crutches, so the sight of a disabled dodo tottering along on crutches just summed up the wonderfully grown up weekend we were enjoying! I felt the onset of a migraine, probably due to the worry of what I could have possibly done to clearly upset the other attendees, so I went for an early night, leaving the disabled dodo to party on her own.
At around 2am I was woken by the disabled dodo staggering into the bedroom, slightly worse for wear, banging and crashing around trying to find the light switch and swearing loudly (in her idea of a stage whisper), as she fell over our suitcase. Eventually she found the light switch, seconds before she tripped over the suitcase once again and flopped beak first onto the bed. "Are you awake?" she slurred "got sumfing to tell you. You know that everything here is real don't you? Max, Commander Hay, Angus the chicken. They are all real people'...hic...hic...buurrrpp...and chicken" she added. "Oh rubbish, Just how much have you had?" I snapped, not best pleased at being woken up "don't be so stupid, It's dressing up, lets pretend, the books are fiction, its fun but it's not real! Shut up and go to sleep" I scolded. "Well, everyone else believes that it is" she replied stroppily, whilst trying to remove the dodo head. I closed my eyes and was soon in a deep slumber.
I awoke around 8 and felt really rough, my head still pounding from the migraine. A disturbed nights sleep and the sight of a half woman, half dodo crashed out next to me, hadn't helped. I was hungry and a 'full English' was exactly what the doctor ordered. I forced myself to get up, woke the sleeping dodo hybrid, went for a cigarette then into breakfast .When I arrived I saw that:
1. Helen had abandoned wearing of her dodo suit (probably not the correct attire for a Sunday breakfast, but dodos eat breakfast so what do they do on Sundays? Wear their human suits?.
2. She was just ordering a pot of tea for two. After ordering us both tea, there were several seconds of deafening silence, again!
This time it was followed by the other diners smiling and nodding to me and each other in acknowledgement....but of what exactly? From that point on I was bid 'good morning' and in the lift on the way back to our room, I was engaged in a debate with a lady regarding the ethics of regenerating the dodo from extinction by combining the small amount of real dodo flesh held at the Natural History museum, with some DNA from the South Asian Nicobar pigeon, the dodo's nearest known living relative. However she appeared not to be proposing a hypothesis, or asking a hypothetical question, but rather asking should we 'be playing God' (because Max had already bought the dodo back from the brink of extinction). The question wasn't 'should we do this' but 'is what we have done right?' Should we resurrect species long extinct due to man's greed and ignorance?
My migraine filled head was spinning with so many questions and although we had booked for the Sunday night, we decided to pack up and leave early for the long drive home. As we drove up the gravel path towards the imposing iron gates, I suddenly saw some creatures running towards the front of the car. I slammed on the brakes. What the f......? A troop of weird looking birds flocked in front of us going towards the green to the right of us. I counted 12, I think they were birds. Ducks...., chickens....Fat turkeys....genetically modified penguins.? No, these were living, breathing, non extinct, very much alive dodos! A dearth of big, dumpy, clumsy but deceptively fast dodos. "I told you that everything here was real" Helen said, poorly hiding the smugness in her voice. The woman who calls herself Max, is actually Max, the lady wearing the half face mask is really Commander Hay. It isn't a mask but her real face. The Time Police, The R&D demonstrations, Angus the chicken....all real. The reason you were sent to Coventry", Helen continued to explain, "was because you drank the coffee (yuck...heathen) at breakfast, not tea (civilised). It is all in the special JT Tips (but without the monkey) tea. Only after you drank the tea, could you see all the wonders around. Only then could you see what the rest of us can see....that JodiWorld is real".
I was totally aghast, but it did all rather make sense, or at least a kind of sense. I was flabbergasted that by drinking the tea, I could see what everyone else had been raving so excitedly about. As the dodos waddled and snuffled inquisitively around us hoping for some treats (thankfully they weren't carnivores!) or perhaps some attention, all I could think about and say was. "So what happens now? What happens when people go home and start blabbing about JodiWorld" I hissed. "It won't stay secret for long and you can guarantee that governments and corporations will try to use and abuse the time travel tech for their own monetary and political gain" I expressed with some disquiet. "No they won't" Helen said reassuringly "and all this" she gestured with a sparkle in her eyes "is what is so great about the JT Tips. The effects start to wear off the further you get away from the hotel grounds and the tea of course, because as Jodi and Hazel have made perfectly clear, what happens at JodiWorld stays at JodiWorld" and with that ,we had a final look around us and set off for home with warmth in our hearts and blissful jubilant smiles on our faces.
Fast forward (or time slip) 8 months and we embarked on the 200 mile, three and a half hour journey to the Coventry hotel that for a whole weekend would be JodiWorld. Despite our best intentions, the moronic Google maps bitch decided to take us on a wild goose chase along the 'scenic route', down lanes so small the hedge hugged the car (rather too tightly at times!) and just for jollies she even threw in a couple of farmyards! (but still no illusive goose!). At last we found the hotel with the assistance of a hard to miss 5ft blue teapot sign, its spout pointing us in the right direction. Eventually we pulled into the hotel driveway tired, gooseless but excited, for the days to come and our adventure at JodiWorld!
After checking into our rooms, we crutched it down to the bar and sunk into comfy chairs to scrutinize the programme of planned atrocities, ahem...I mean activities, starting with a 2pm welcome and an 'ice breaker' quiz to kick things off. After we had all shown what complete know it all's we are, it’s time for some detective work. The fun will commence with a cup of JT Tips tea for those who wished to partake, (coffee for the rest eww!) followed by a cut throat chocolate biscuits treasure hunt. Next up, it’s time to rest and digest those chocolate biscuits while listening to Jodi reading extracts from her latest book. Later, it will be time to share a leg, in the three legged 'don't spill the tea race' (health and safety gonna love this one!). Following on there’s a fancy dress contest, short story competition and Saturday night is party night, whoop! whoop! St Mary's Research and Development Team were also setting up various displays, the centrepiece of which was a unique prosthetic beak which (they claimed), has been specially made for an injured dodo!!
At the grand opening Jodi was somewhat overwhelmed "I cant quite believe that this is all for real" she said with what I would later realise, was an all knowing smile. I was anxious when the activities started as I'm not a fan of crowds. My hesitance was short lived as we were welcomed like kindred spirits and soon we were conversing with strangers as if we were lifelong friends.
Everyone had really got into the swing of the occasion. There was actually a St. Mary's recruitment stand and even the Time Police were represented by a lady wearing a mask covering half of her face, masquerading as Commander Hay, I assume? The wearing of dungarees seemed to be de rigueur; all departments were represented and the colour worn dictated the wearer's chosen department. There was a lady, short of stature with flaming red hair and dressed in blue overalls, (standard attire for historians) and she would only answer to the name of Max. A chicken was strutting around, presumably Angus? She was happy to be photographed, especially with those people she had chosen to crap on. Overall (or dungaree all) the atmosphere was welcoming, inclusive and fun and we were looking forward to the following days frolics.
Come Saturday morning, I ordered our breakfast drinks, Helen her usual tea, me coffee (I only drink tea when I feel unwell). On expressing our breakfast preference, an immediate, deafening silence spread over everyone in the restaurant. The pin drop silence only lasted a matter of seconds but the menacing foreboding lasted much longer and made me extremely edgy and uneasy. I could feel the eyes of the other diners giving me captious and disparaging looks but when they observed me looking they quickly returned to their eating and conversations.
The day continued with the full programme of activities but I felt ostracized by the other guests. I tried to engage them in conversation and although no one said anything pernicious or derogatory to me, from breakfast onwards I felt shunned, it was like I just didn't exist, I was invisible, I was ignored. I would have said I'd been sent to Coventry...if I wasn't already there!!
Helen, though seemed oblivious to it all and was thoroughly enjoying herself, wearing a dodo costume that she had spent months making. However she just couldn't wait for the fancy dress contest and had decided to wear it for the duration of the weekend, which by itself would have been funny enough, but the thing is, Helen walks with two elbow crutches, so the sight of a disabled dodo tottering along on crutches just summed up the wonderfully grown up weekend we were enjoying! I felt the onset of a migraine, probably due to the worry of what I could have possibly done to clearly upset the other attendees, so I went for an early night, leaving the disabled dodo to party on her own.
At around 2am I was woken by the disabled dodo staggering into the bedroom, slightly worse for wear, banging and crashing around trying to find the light switch and swearing loudly (in her idea of a stage whisper), as she fell over our suitcase. Eventually she found the light switch, seconds before she tripped over the suitcase once again and flopped beak first onto the bed. "Are you awake?" she slurred "got sumfing to tell you. You know that everything here is real don't you? Max, Commander Hay, Angus the chicken. They are all real people'...hic...hic...buurrrpp...and chicken" she added. "Oh rubbish, Just how much have you had?" I snapped, not best pleased at being woken up "don't be so stupid, It's dressing up, lets pretend, the books are fiction, its fun but it's not real! Shut up and go to sleep" I scolded. "Well, everyone else believes that it is" she replied stroppily, whilst trying to remove the dodo head. I closed my eyes and was soon in a deep slumber.
I awoke around 8 and felt really rough, my head still pounding from the migraine. A disturbed nights sleep and the sight of a half woman, half dodo crashed out next to me, hadn't helped. I was hungry and a 'full English' was exactly what the doctor ordered. I forced myself to get up, woke the sleeping dodo hybrid, went for a cigarette then into breakfast .When I arrived I saw that:
1. Helen had abandoned wearing of her dodo suit (probably not the correct attire for a Sunday breakfast, but dodos eat breakfast so what do they do on Sundays? Wear their human suits?.
2. She was just ordering a pot of tea for two. After ordering us both tea, there were several seconds of deafening silence, again!
This time it was followed by the other diners smiling and nodding to me and each other in acknowledgement....but of what exactly? From that point on I was bid 'good morning' and in the lift on the way back to our room, I was engaged in a debate with a lady regarding the ethics of regenerating the dodo from extinction by combining the small amount of real dodo flesh held at the Natural History museum, with some DNA from the South Asian Nicobar pigeon, the dodo's nearest known living relative. However she appeared not to be proposing a hypothesis, or asking a hypothetical question, but rather asking should we 'be playing God' (because Max had already bought the dodo back from the brink of extinction). The question wasn't 'should we do this' but 'is what we have done right?' Should we resurrect species long extinct due to man's greed and ignorance?
My migraine filled head was spinning with so many questions and although we had booked for the Sunday night, we decided to pack up and leave early for the long drive home. As we drove up the gravel path towards the imposing iron gates, I suddenly saw some creatures running towards the front of the car. I slammed on the brakes. What the f......? A troop of weird looking birds flocked in front of us going towards the green to the right of us. I counted 12, I think they were birds. Ducks...., chickens....Fat turkeys....genetically modified penguins.? No, these were living, breathing, non extinct, very much alive dodos! A dearth of big, dumpy, clumsy but deceptively fast dodos. "I told you that everything here was real" Helen said, poorly hiding the smugness in her voice. The woman who calls herself Max, is actually Max, the lady wearing the half face mask is really Commander Hay. It isn't a mask but her real face. The Time Police, The R&D demonstrations, Angus the chicken....all real. The reason you were sent to Coventry", Helen continued to explain, "was because you drank the coffee (yuck...heathen) at breakfast, not tea (civilised). It is all in the special JT Tips (but without the monkey) tea. Only after you drank the tea, could you see all the wonders around. Only then could you see what the rest of us can see....that JodiWorld is real".
I was totally aghast, but it did all rather make sense, or at least a kind of sense. I was flabbergasted that by drinking the tea, I could see what everyone else had been raving so excitedly about. As the dodos waddled and snuffled inquisitively around us hoping for some treats (thankfully they weren't carnivores!) or perhaps some attention, all I could think about and say was. "So what happens now? What happens when people go home and start blabbing about JodiWorld" I hissed. "It won't stay secret for long and you can guarantee that governments and corporations will try to use and abuse the time travel tech for their own monetary and political gain" I expressed with some disquiet. "No they won't" Helen said reassuringly "and all this" she gestured with a sparkle in her eyes "is what is so great about the JT Tips. The effects start to wear off the further you get away from the hotel grounds and the tea of course, because as Jodi and Hazel have made perfectly clear, what happens at JodiWorld stays at JodiWorld" and with that ,we had a final look around us and set off for home with warmth in our hearts and blissful jubilant smiles on our faces.
Story 7.
Sent to Coventry
“It is scandalous!” Elsie Johnson declared, slamming down her copy of Handel’s Messiah on the table. As committee chair of St Joseph’s Women’s Guild, and choir lead soprano, she took it as a personal insult that such goings on were happening in the respectable village of Much Standing. She glared around at her small group of ladies, whose grey heads were bobbing up and down in agreement, as if they would ever dare to disagree with their formidable leader. Choir practice had finished half an hour earlier, and as was their habit, the ladies, soprano, and alto section, were gathered in the small vestry, drinking tea from the large urn. The male section of the choir had disappeared as always in the direction of The George and Dragon. A plate of custard creams lay still untouched on the small oak table. “What does the vicar think?” asked Mary Spencer, lead alto, desperately hoping someone would take a biscuit soon. She did not want to be the first. Elsie let out snort of disgust. “No offence, Joan,” she said as all eyes swivelled to the vicar’s wife, second alto, sitting quietly with her teacup in her hands, “but your husband would not smell scandal if it was pushed right under his nose.” “None taken,” Joan replied, calmly and without rancour. She had been the Reverend Robert Channing’s wife for twenty two years and was fully aware of her dear husband’s shortcomings. “It’s her husband I feel sorry for, poor man.” put in Rowena Marsden, who might only be second soprano, but she was the lead village gossip. “He must be mortified.” She reached for a biscuit, and with a sigh of relief the other ladies all reached forward to take one. “She is a lot younger than him.” Ruth Williams, mezzo soprano, covered her mouth to prevent her from spitting out biscuit crumbs. “And very pretty. Lovely blonde hair, all wavy, down to her waist.” “What’s that got to do with it?” snapped Elsie. “I have never heard anything like it before. Maybe in the city, but not here in the Cotswolds.” Elsie eyed the solitary biscuit left on the plate, which should have been for the subject of their attentions, had she turned up for choir practice that day. “We should do something about it,” declared Rowena. She boldly took the last biscuit from the plate. Then noticing everyone’s eyes on her, waved it in the air. “What? It can’t go back in the packet, can it?” “I thought you were on a diet,” Mary said cattily. “An extra custard cream is hardly going to make a difference,” Rowena huffed. “My figure can stand it.” She looked pointedly at Mary’s ample curves. “Now ladies, let’s be nice,” Elsie said soothingly. “What can we do though?” asked Mary returning to the subject of the discussion. “I have an idea,” Elsie rubbed her chin as she usually did when she was thinking. “We all need to do our bit, though.” She outlined her plan to the group, and soon they were all nodding in agreement.
The choir practice had gone badly. Mr Higgins the choirmaster dramatically threw his hands up in the air in despair, as the women stumbled through their “And The Glory of the Lord” a cappella. “What is the matter with you tonight?” he complained. “You almost had that perfect, two weeks ago. We have only two more sessions before our performance at the Easter music festival! What am I to do with you?” Mr Higgins ended the practice early, and as the men, with some relief, marched off to the pub, the ladies trailed into the vestry, where the tea urn was not yet up to temperature. “I didn’t think we were that bad,” grumbled Rowena. Nobody responded, as they knew they had performed below par. They also knew why. In silence, Elsie set out the cups, and counted out the correct number of custard creams on the plate. She was avoiding biscuit conflict tonight. As the urn finally reached boiling point, the ladies filled their cups and took their seats around the table. The custard creams remained untouched. Rowena certainly was not going to be the first to take one this week. Eventually, Violet Mills, third soprano, off the previous week with a tummy bug, broke the silence.
“Whose idea was it to send her to Coventry anyway?” asked Violet. “I only found out the plan on Monday, when Rowena told me in the bakers. I had already spoken to her Saturday morning, at flower arranging.” Nobody dared point out that it had been Elsie who had originally come up with the idea of demonstrating their collective displeasure. To be fair they had all readily agreed with her. “I positively cold shouldered her in the post office,” Mary said loftily. She ran the local branch in the village with her husband. “She wanted to send a parcel first class to her mother. I didn’t even ask her if she was sending something nice, like I normally would.” “And I crossed the road to avoid her on my way to the greengrocers on Saturday,” put in Ruth. “She cannot possibly have not noticed.” “She did know that we had sent her to Coventry, didn’t she?” enquired Violet.
“Yes, of course,” Elsie said firmly. “I put a note in her hymn book and left it in her usual pew on Sunday, saying just that.” “None of us thought she would take it so literally though,” said Rowena defensively, knowing that she was one of the main supporters of the idea. “We only said we were sending her to Coventry. It is not our fault that she actually took it into her head to actually go to the blasted place.” Elsie exclaimed in exasperation. “Elsie!” Joan cried in protest. “We are in church!” “We are in the vestry. And blasted isn’t swearing.” Elsie declared, and nobody dared contradict her. “Maybe that is where she got the idea,” added Joan gently, who truth be known had never been happy with the whole plan. She vowed never to get dragged into one of Elsie Johnson’s schemes again. “But how does Mr Brown know that she’s gone?” enquired Violet. “His wife cleans at the manor house two mornings a week,” Rowena replied, her hands itching to take a custard cream. Singing always made her hungry. “She left early one morning. She didn’t even take a suitcase. Just took off with that groom, what’s his name?” “Tom something or other.” Ruth screwed up her face trying to remember his surname. “He is very good looking.” “Trust you to notice that!” said Mary, taking a sip of her tea and regretting it as it was still too hot. “Was it Mellors?” asked Violet, blowing on her drink to cool it. Singing made her thirsty. “You are thinking of Lady Chatterly’s Lover,” giggled Ruth. “Not much difference really,” laughed Rowena, finally succumbing and taking a custard cream. “It was her that was half naked in the garden, not the groom though!” With some relief the ladies joined in the amusement and all reached to take their biscuit. “I should imagine he must have found it hard to avert his eyes,” Violet mused, slowly chewing her biscuit to make it last longer. “Her there, displaying all her, well her assets, for everyone to see.” “She was sunbathing!” objected Ruth. “It’s still a free country as far as I am aware. If she was in her own garden, he shouldn’t have been peeping. That’s taking a liberty.” “But sunbathing topless, that’s asking for trouble!” said Mary, finishing off her tea, and getting up to start clearing away. Elsie decided that was enough gossip for the night. “We were right to do what we did. That’s no way for a lady to behave, even if it was in her own back garden. Whose turn is it to wash up?” “It’s mine. They didn’t have to steal the horse though. Beautiful thing it was, pure white. His lordship loved it.” Rowena sighed regretfully.
The dress rehearsal for the performance had gone extremely well. Mr Higgins was happy with his choir and as they closed their scores, he was beaming from ear to ear. “Excellent ladies and gentlemen! Remember to be here half an hour early on Sunday so we can carry out our warmup exercises.” Elsie led her ladies into the vestry and saw with satisfaction that the urn was already bubbling away. She emptied all the custard creams left in the packet, onto a plate. “Might as well finish the packet as it is our last rehearsal.” In the end though the biscuits remained untouched. On their usual table was a folded newspaper. A note on top in the vicar’s handwriting said: “See Page 12. I took the liberty of removing a note from a certain hymn book last week, before it reached its intended recipient. John Chapter 8 verse 7.” “’He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her’,” quoted Joan. They all crowded round and Elsie opened the newspaper at page 12, where the headline declared: “Landowner’s wife protests against high Council Tax rates for poorer households”. But all eyes were drawn to the large photograph dominating the page. On the streets of Coventry, a lady with long flowing locks sat astride a handsome white horse, led by a young man wearing a blindfold. Apart from her tumbling hair covering her, the lady was completely naked. “Well!” exclaimed Rowena. “At least we know why they took the horse!”
The choir practice had gone badly. Mr Higgins the choirmaster dramatically threw his hands up in the air in despair, as the women stumbled through their “And The Glory of the Lord” a cappella. “What is the matter with you tonight?” he complained. “You almost had that perfect, two weeks ago. We have only two more sessions before our performance at the Easter music festival! What am I to do with you?” Mr Higgins ended the practice early, and as the men, with some relief, marched off to the pub, the ladies trailed into the vestry, where the tea urn was not yet up to temperature. “I didn’t think we were that bad,” grumbled Rowena. Nobody responded, as they knew they had performed below par. They also knew why. In silence, Elsie set out the cups, and counted out the correct number of custard creams on the plate. She was avoiding biscuit conflict tonight. As the urn finally reached boiling point, the ladies filled their cups and took their seats around the table. The custard creams remained untouched. Rowena certainly was not going to be the first to take one this week. Eventually, Violet Mills, third soprano, off the previous week with a tummy bug, broke the silence.
“Whose idea was it to send her to Coventry anyway?” asked Violet. “I only found out the plan on Monday, when Rowena told me in the bakers. I had already spoken to her Saturday morning, at flower arranging.” Nobody dared point out that it had been Elsie who had originally come up with the idea of demonstrating their collective displeasure. To be fair they had all readily agreed with her. “I positively cold shouldered her in the post office,” Mary said loftily. She ran the local branch in the village with her husband. “She wanted to send a parcel first class to her mother. I didn’t even ask her if she was sending something nice, like I normally would.” “And I crossed the road to avoid her on my way to the greengrocers on Saturday,” put in Ruth. “She cannot possibly have not noticed.” “She did know that we had sent her to Coventry, didn’t she?” enquired Violet.
“Yes, of course,” Elsie said firmly. “I put a note in her hymn book and left it in her usual pew on Sunday, saying just that.” “None of us thought she would take it so literally though,” said Rowena defensively, knowing that she was one of the main supporters of the idea. “We only said we were sending her to Coventry. It is not our fault that she actually took it into her head to actually go to the blasted place.” Elsie exclaimed in exasperation. “Elsie!” Joan cried in protest. “We are in church!” “We are in the vestry. And blasted isn’t swearing.” Elsie declared, and nobody dared contradict her. “Maybe that is where she got the idea,” added Joan gently, who truth be known had never been happy with the whole plan. She vowed never to get dragged into one of Elsie Johnson’s schemes again. “But how does Mr Brown know that she’s gone?” enquired Violet. “His wife cleans at the manor house two mornings a week,” Rowena replied, her hands itching to take a custard cream. Singing always made her hungry. “She left early one morning. She didn’t even take a suitcase. Just took off with that groom, what’s his name?” “Tom something or other.” Ruth screwed up her face trying to remember his surname. “He is very good looking.” “Trust you to notice that!” said Mary, taking a sip of her tea and regretting it as it was still too hot. “Was it Mellors?” asked Violet, blowing on her drink to cool it. Singing made her thirsty. “You are thinking of Lady Chatterly’s Lover,” giggled Ruth. “Not much difference really,” laughed Rowena, finally succumbing and taking a custard cream. “It was her that was half naked in the garden, not the groom though!” With some relief the ladies joined in the amusement and all reached to take their biscuit. “I should imagine he must have found it hard to avert his eyes,” Violet mused, slowly chewing her biscuit to make it last longer. “Her there, displaying all her, well her assets, for everyone to see.” “She was sunbathing!” objected Ruth. “It’s still a free country as far as I am aware. If she was in her own garden, he shouldn’t have been peeping. That’s taking a liberty.” “But sunbathing topless, that’s asking for trouble!” said Mary, finishing off her tea, and getting up to start clearing away. Elsie decided that was enough gossip for the night. “We were right to do what we did. That’s no way for a lady to behave, even if it was in her own back garden. Whose turn is it to wash up?” “It’s mine. They didn’t have to steal the horse though. Beautiful thing it was, pure white. His lordship loved it.” Rowena sighed regretfully.
The dress rehearsal for the performance had gone extremely well. Mr Higgins was happy with his choir and as they closed their scores, he was beaming from ear to ear. “Excellent ladies and gentlemen! Remember to be here half an hour early on Sunday so we can carry out our warmup exercises.” Elsie led her ladies into the vestry and saw with satisfaction that the urn was already bubbling away. She emptied all the custard creams left in the packet, onto a plate. “Might as well finish the packet as it is our last rehearsal.” In the end though the biscuits remained untouched. On their usual table was a folded newspaper. A note on top in the vicar’s handwriting said: “See Page 12. I took the liberty of removing a note from a certain hymn book last week, before it reached its intended recipient. John Chapter 8 verse 7.” “’He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her’,” quoted Joan. They all crowded round and Elsie opened the newspaper at page 12, where the headline declared: “Landowner’s wife protests against high Council Tax rates for poorer households”. But all eyes were drawn to the large photograph dominating the page. On the streets of Coventry, a lady with long flowing locks sat astride a handsome white horse, led by a young man wearing a blindfold. Apart from her tumbling hair covering her, the lady was completely naked. “Well!” exclaimed Rowena. “At least we know why they took the horse!”
Story 8.
Sent to Coventry
It’s the year 2165 and Britain is the world’s superpower once again. How you ask? Well Russia was bankrupted by its 21st century wars, China’s population has been decimated by a new virus, India has shut its borders and doesn’t communicate with the outside world and won’t tell us why, America is a century into its second civil war and global warming has raised sea levels by 3m making the coastlines look nothing like those atlases of the early 21st century. The world’s population is in turmoil. Less landmass means less farmland to feed people and the cities that are not under the sea are overcrowded. Many people are forced into crime just to survive but others use crime as a reason to be violent, just because they can. Earth is no longer a utopia for mankind.
Isaac sat staring through his telescope at the solar system around Proxima Centauri from his home in the Chiltern Hills. The first explorers, the pioneers, reached the three planets in the Goldilocks Zone about a decade ago but man’s impact on these planets can’t be seen from this distance, four light years away. When he looks away from the sky, he sees his papers carelessly scattered on his desk. He has been called up to be on one of the first crewed Mega Shuttle flights to Proxima Centauri. This is not the trip he wanted when he applied to be an astronaut. Yes, it’s high profile, yes, he will be a hero when he returns, if he returns, but Mega Shuttle 4? He wanted to be one of the pioneers but now he’s ten years older he doesn’t have much choice. He’ll get to travel in space on a Mega Shuttle, not his first choice but it’s still space. However, it’s not just any Mega Shuttle but Mega Shuttle 4! How had he drawn such a short straw? Five Mega Shuttles were being constructed over the equator in Clarke Orbit and two had already left in the past few months. Each can carry livestock, functioning arable farms, a seed bank, key materials and, most importantly, people starting over. Surrounding the inner hull of each shuttle is a lake of water to help kickstart the terraforming as well as to minimise radiation exposure to the people and other cargo being carried by the Mega Shuttles on their long voyage through space.
There are nine planets in the solar system surrounding Proxima Centauri which itself is part of the triple star system Alpha Centauri. Astronomers were persuaded to change the names to something more memorable than the original alphabetical notation. The biggest planet in the Goldilocks Zone (the habitable zone that’s not too hot, not too cold but just right) used to be called Proxima Centauri b. Now they have discovered a couple of smaller planets and all have been renamed by the British Space Association using British cities, going from the channel up to Scotland. From the star outwards we now have Brighton, London, Oxford, Coventry, Nottingham, York, Newcastle, Edinburgh and Inverness. The three Goldilocks Zone planets are London, Oxford and Coventry.
These three planets all orbit the sun at a speed unheard of in our solar system. Coventry takes just over 11 days to orbit Proxima Centauri and they’re not too far apart in space either which is why the smaller two weren’t discovered until 35 years ago. It’s a miracle they all found these safe orbits so close to one another but any moons that were around these planets are now long gone. The huge benefit to us will be that commuting between the planets can be done quickly and regularly. Oxford, said the pioneers, was the best of the three and their early attempts at terraforming had started well according to the latest messages received, although sending at light speed they took 4 years to arrive. We can only hope that it’s significantly more terraformed now. It wasn’t the biggest of the three but gravity was 90% of earth gravity. This is where the Proxima Centauri Empire government would be located along with the majority of the colonists. This will be earth 2.0. One planet closer to Proxima Centauri was London which was warmer with more sunlight. The pioneers thought that the planet could mostly be used for farming and construction. It was smaller than Oxford with less gravity meaning you could construct large things more easily and would require less fuel to get into orbit and do shuttle runs to Oxford or Coventry. The main population would be farmers, construction workers and space engineers. The furthest Goldilocks Zone planet from the sun was Coventry. It was much larger with little natural water but plenty of mineral resources ready to be mined. The gravity was high, making things feel much heavier than they do on our earth, and being further away from the sun meant it was much colder too. It was habitable, but only just!
Isaac looked at his papers again. Mega Shuttle 4! He put his head in his hands and shook. His dark hair fell over his fingers with just the bitten nails showing. He never used to bite his fingernails but his well groomed hands were gone, in place he could see the hands of a worrier. Was there any way he could get onto one of the other craft? No, nobody would swap with him even if he gave them everything he had, which wasn’t much. Isaac knew he wanted to be an astronaut since he got his first telescope for his 14th birthday. He loved science at school and wanted to go and explore space. He was a single-minded nerd who spent all his time studying with no time for romance so wasn’t leaving anyone special behind. With the rising sea levels, property was scarce and very expensive, luckily, he lived in one of the large boarding houses on the main space base run by the British Space Association. Being an astronaut meant he had his own room and private bathroom, most people shared four or eight to a room. Some benefits surely, but not today. He couldn’t approach anyone to say how he was feeling, no-one would notice his lack of excitement. He was considered one of the lucky ones and people were jealous that he was getting on one of the first Mega Shuttles off this hot, tempestuous, dying planet.
Well, he wasn’t going just yet. First he had to train in one of the International Space Station’s training and simulation modules that the British Space Association had been adding every two years to the ISS. There were now enough modules to simultaneously train all the astronaut crew for one Mega Shuttle. Britain and its allied countries were now the only visitors to the ISS, the only ones to maintain it, to send shuttles up with supplies and new crew for the main modules that were now well over 150 years old and in need of constant repair. Would anyone bother maintaining it once all the Mega Shuttles have completed all the planned round trips? Even with ten thousand people, sorry colonists, aboard each Mega Shuttle they would have to make many trips to move so many people to the new planets. And construct more Mega Shuttles too over the next few years, he thought.
Isaac went back to his powerful telescope, but this time looking at the moon. He could see the craters from the previous millennia and the modules left behind after the disastrous attempt to colonise the moon. That was before his time and there had been no missions to the moon in over 30 years now. He wished that he was born earlier and could have been part of that. Or was he just wishing to do anything in space that didn’t involve travelling on Mega Shuttle 4? Mega Shuttles 1 and 2 had already left our solar system, home to the original earth. They were headed for London and Oxford respectively. Mega Shuttle 2 was filled with the elite colonists, those who helped fund the development and creation of the Mega Shuttles, those who wanted to grab the best land on Oxford, be the founding fathers of the new Empire. Some of the richest families sold everything and gave billions just to be on Mega Shuttle 2. Isaac heard periodic updates about their travel, how the arable farms were faring, how the livestock were becoming more used to the low artificial gravity and how communities were being formed on board. This sounded exciting. Mega Shuttle 3 was leaving soon, just a week till it left with a second contingent to London to ensure the predominantly farming planet could support future colonists in both Oxford and Coventry.
Then it would be his turn. Then Isaac would be doing what he always wanted to do but now feared. Isaac would be headed on the first Mega Shuttle to Coventry. He saw the ISS pass overhead and programmed his telescope to track it through the sky. Such a short hop to the ISS, just 6 hours travel that always excited him on his three previous missions help with repairs. It wouldn’t be much longer to the moon either with current shuttles. Travelling the four light years to Coventry would take over ten years. TEN YEARS! Each way! Perhaps, I should have been an engineer instead, Isaac thought. Perhaps I could have found a way to travel interstellar faster than the new hyper-ion drives and solar sails? That wasn’t where his talents lay and he knew it. The space luggage had been delivered that morning. It was lightweight and looked so flimsy but he knew that the few bags he was allocated would hold all that he wanted to take with him. As an astronaut he never accumulated many possessions, there was no point. It would take him less than an hour to pack, he’d done it mentally a few times already, then he would be on his way. First the jet to the launch site, then the shuttle up to the ISS for his two-week acclimatisation training.
As Isaac left his lodgings in the boarding house for the last time, everyone came out to see him and the other crew off. He had seen this happen on the space base when fellow astronauts had left to go on the other Mega Shuttles. Shouts and cheers, good natured requests to take someone along this time, if not this time, then next would be good. He knew space travel was not only his dream but the dream of all those left behind here. Despite his misgivings he smiled and waved at them all, feeling uneasy playing a hero. The jet to the launch site went faster than expected. This was probably the last time he would see earth up close and his eyes tried to remember absolutely everything he saw. It was unlikely that, if he returned for another trip to Proxima Centauri, he would come down to the surface, he would probably just remain on the Mega Shuttle. This was also likely to be his last visit to the ISS and there was so much to do that the two weeks just flew by.
Soon Isaac and the rest of the Mega Shuttle 4 crew moved onto the Mega Shuttle itself. Without the colonists on board, it was cavernous and eerily quiet. The cargo hold and farms were being filled up and life support was being tested. In a week he would be heading off on the biggest adventure of his life, so why was he feeling so uneasy? It took most of the next week to get the ten thousand colonists on board and then after final tests they were off. One last look at the only moon he’d ever know and ten thousand convicts were being transported to Coventry, against their will they were being sent to Coventry. What could possibly go wrong?
Technical sources:
Clarke Orbit:
The concept of a geostationary orbit was popularised by the science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke in the 1940s as a way to revolutionise telecommunications and space travel. In recognition of these contributions, the geostationary orbit 36,000 kilometres (22,000 miles) above the equator is officially recognised by the International Astronomical Union as the Clarke Orbit. https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Clarke_orbit
Proxima Centauri b:
Nearest habitable planet to earth
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proxima_Centauri_b
Goldilocks Zone:
The zone around a star where a planet could experience temperatures like those on Earth, allowing for the possible existence of liquid water and of life. So called because, like the third of the three bowls of porridge in the fairy tale Goldilocks, it is neither too hot nor too cold, but just right.
https://exoplanets.nasa.gov/resources/323/goldilocks-zone/
Water as a shield against radiation, many sources including this thesis:
https://digitalcommons.calpoly.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3795&context=theses#
Isaac sat staring through his telescope at the solar system around Proxima Centauri from his home in the Chiltern Hills. The first explorers, the pioneers, reached the three planets in the Goldilocks Zone about a decade ago but man’s impact on these planets can’t be seen from this distance, four light years away. When he looks away from the sky, he sees his papers carelessly scattered on his desk. He has been called up to be on one of the first crewed Mega Shuttle flights to Proxima Centauri. This is not the trip he wanted when he applied to be an astronaut. Yes, it’s high profile, yes, he will be a hero when he returns, if he returns, but Mega Shuttle 4? He wanted to be one of the pioneers but now he’s ten years older he doesn’t have much choice. He’ll get to travel in space on a Mega Shuttle, not his first choice but it’s still space. However, it’s not just any Mega Shuttle but Mega Shuttle 4! How had he drawn such a short straw? Five Mega Shuttles were being constructed over the equator in Clarke Orbit and two had already left in the past few months. Each can carry livestock, functioning arable farms, a seed bank, key materials and, most importantly, people starting over. Surrounding the inner hull of each shuttle is a lake of water to help kickstart the terraforming as well as to minimise radiation exposure to the people and other cargo being carried by the Mega Shuttles on their long voyage through space.
There are nine planets in the solar system surrounding Proxima Centauri which itself is part of the triple star system Alpha Centauri. Astronomers were persuaded to change the names to something more memorable than the original alphabetical notation. The biggest planet in the Goldilocks Zone (the habitable zone that’s not too hot, not too cold but just right) used to be called Proxima Centauri b. Now they have discovered a couple of smaller planets and all have been renamed by the British Space Association using British cities, going from the channel up to Scotland. From the star outwards we now have Brighton, London, Oxford, Coventry, Nottingham, York, Newcastle, Edinburgh and Inverness. The three Goldilocks Zone planets are London, Oxford and Coventry.
These three planets all orbit the sun at a speed unheard of in our solar system. Coventry takes just over 11 days to orbit Proxima Centauri and they’re not too far apart in space either which is why the smaller two weren’t discovered until 35 years ago. It’s a miracle they all found these safe orbits so close to one another but any moons that were around these planets are now long gone. The huge benefit to us will be that commuting between the planets can be done quickly and regularly. Oxford, said the pioneers, was the best of the three and their early attempts at terraforming had started well according to the latest messages received, although sending at light speed they took 4 years to arrive. We can only hope that it’s significantly more terraformed now. It wasn’t the biggest of the three but gravity was 90% of earth gravity. This is where the Proxima Centauri Empire government would be located along with the majority of the colonists. This will be earth 2.0. One planet closer to Proxima Centauri was London which was warmer with more sunlight. The pioneers thought that the planet could mostly be used for farming and construction. It was smaller than Oxford with less gravity meaning you could construct large things more easily and would require less fuel to get into orbit and do shuttle runs to Oxford or Coventry. The main population would be farmers, construction workers and space engineers. The furthest Goldilocks Zone planet from the sun was Coventry. It was much larger with little natural water but plenty of mineral resources ready to be mined. The gravity was high, making things feel much heavier than they do on our earth, and being further away from the sun meant it was much colder too. It was habitable, but only just!
Isaac looked at his papers again. Mega Shuttle 4! He put his head in his hands and shook. His dark hair fell over his fingers with just the bitten nails showing. He never used to bite his fingernails but his well groomed hands were gone, in place he could see the hands of a worrier. Was there any way he could get onto one of the other craft? No, nobody would swap with him even if he gave them everything he had, which wasn’t much. Isaac knew he wanted to be an astronaut since he got his first telescope for his 14th birthday. He loved science at school and wanted to go and explore space. He was a single-minded nerd who spent all his time studying with no time for romance so wasn’t leaving anyone special behind. With the rising sea levels, property was scarce and very expensive, luckily, he lived in one of the large boarding houses on the main space base run by the British Space Association. Being an astronaut meant he had his own room and private bathroom, most people shared four or eight to a room. Some benefits surely, but not today. He couldn’t approach anyone to say how he was feeling, no-one would notice his lack of excitement. He was considered one of the lucky ones and people were jealous that he was getting on one of the first Mega Shuttles off this hot, tempestuous, dying planet.
Well, he wasn’t going just yet. First he had to train in one of the International Space Station’s training and simulation modules that the British Space Association had been adding every two years to the ISS. There were now enough modules to simultaneously train all the astronaut crew for one Mega Shuttle. Britain and its allied countries were now the only visitors to the ISS, the only ones to maintain it, to send shuttles up with supplies and new crew for the main modules that were now well over 150 years old and in need of constant repair. Would anyone bother maintaining it once all the Mega Shuttles have completed all the planned round trips? Even with ten thousand people, sorry colonists, aboard each Mega Shuttle they would have to make many trips to move so many people to the new planets. And construct more Mega Shuttles too over the next few years, he thought.
Isaac went back to his powerful telescope, but this time looking at the moon. He could see the craters from the previous millennia and the modules left behind after the disastrous attempt to colonise the moon. That was before his time and there had been no missions to the moon in over 30 years now. He wished that he was born earlier and could have been part of that. Or was he just wishing to do anything in space that didn’t involve travelling on Mega Shuttle 4? Mega Shuttles 1 and 2 had already left our solar system, home to the original earth. They were headed for London and Oxford respectively. Mega Shuttle 2 was filled with the elite colonists, those who helped fund the development and creation of the Mega Shuttles, those who wanted to grab the best land on Oxford, be the founding fathers of the new Empire. Some of the richest families sold everything and gave billions just to be on Mega Shuttle 2. Isaac heard periodic updates about their travel, how the arable farms were faring, how the livestock were becoming more used to the low artificial gravity and how communities were being formed on board. This sounded exciting. Mega Shuttle 3 was leaving soon, just a week till it left with a second contingent to London to ensure the predominantly farming planet could support future colonists in both Oxford and Coventry.
Then it would be his turn. Then Isaac would be doing what he always wanted to do but now feared. Isaac would be headed on the first Mega Shuttle to Coventry. He saw the ISS pass overhead and programmed his telescope to track it through the sky. Such a short hop to the ISS, just 6 hours travel that always excited him on his three previous missions help with repairs. It wouldn’t be much longer to the moon either with current shuttles. Travelling the four light years to Coventry would take over ten years. TEN YEARS! Each way! Perhaps, I should have been an engineer instead, Isaac thought. Perhaps I could have found a way to travel interstellar faster than the new hyper-ion drives and solar sails? That wasn’t where his talents lay and he knew it. The space luggage had been delivered that morning. It was lightweight and looked so flimsy but he knew that the few bags he was allocated would hold all that he wanted to take with him. As an astronaut he never accumulated many possessions, there was no point. It would take him less than an hour to pack, he’d done it mentally a few times already, then he would be on his way. First the jet to the launch site, then the shuttle up to the ISS for his two-week acclimatisation training.
As Isaac left his lodgings in the boarding house for the last time, everyone came out to see him and the other crew off. He had seen this happen on the space base when fellow astronauts had left to go on the other Mega Shuttles. Shouts and cheers, good natured requests to take someone along this time, if not this time, then next would be good. He knew space travel was not only his dream but the dream of all those left behind here. Despite his misgivings he smiled and waved at them all, feeling uneasy playing a hero. The jet to the launch site went faster than expected. This was probably the last time he would see earth up close and his eyes tried to remember absolutely everything he saw. It was unlikely that, if he returned for another trip to Proxima Centauri, he would come down to the surface, he would probably just remain on the Mega Shuttle. This was also likely to be his last visit to the ISS and there was so much to do that the two weeks just flew by.
Soon Isaac and the rest of the Mega Shuttle 4 crew moved onto the Mega Shuttle itself. Without the colonists on board, it was cavernous and eerily quiet. The cargo hold and farms were being filled up and life support was being tested. In a week he would be heading off on the biggest adventure of his life, so why was he feeling so uneasy? It took most of the next week to get the ten thousand colonists on board and then after final tests they were off. One last look at the only moon he’d ever know and ten thousand convicts were being transported to Coventry, against their will they were being sent to Coventry. What could possibly go wrong?
Technical sources:
Clarke Orbit:
The concept of a geostationary orbit was popularised by the science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke in the 1940s as a way to revolutionise telecommunications and space travel. In recognition of these contributions, the geostationary orbit 36,000 kilometres (22,000 miles) above the equator is officially recognised by the International Astronomical Union as the Clarke Orbit. https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Clarke_orbit
Proxima Centauri b:
Nearest habitable planet to earth
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proxima_Centauri_b
Goldilocks Zone:
The zone around a star where a planet could experience temperatures like those on Earth, allowing for the possible existence of liquid water and of life. So called because, like the third of the three bowls of porridge in the fairy tale Goldilocks, it is neither too hot nor too cold, but just right.
https://exoplanets.nasa.gov/resources/323/goldilocks-zone/
Water as a shield against radiation, many sources including this thesis:
https://digitalcommons.calpoly.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3795&context=theses#
Story 9.
Don't go “commando” in the Arctic
Foreword. Burying underpants and teabags are both real Citizen Science projects that look to investigate the health of soils. My school Science Club thoroughly enjoyed burying underpants, with less mayhem than in this story, but we never did find one pair!
“It's not fair, it was all Molly's idea, so why are we three being sent to Coventry? Admittedly, Davies is pretty guilty, but we were just doing our best to run her experiment as instructed. We tackled the problems thrown at us and showed initiative and now all the female staff are not talking to us. It's not fair, it's discrimination I tell you!” Based on a small Arctic island, we are a quiet little research station on the whole. It can be pretty dull to tell you the truth. All we do is monitor the permafrost and try to avoid the biting flies. The scenery never changes and nothing ever happens, no one has discovered a jolly fat man running a toy workshop and nothing with an evil alien intent has tried to take us over one by one. So we have to make our own entertainment. We can get a little stir crazy, and that is often when someone comes up with “a really good idea!”
It all kicked off at our Monday morning meeting. Everyone was assembled in our living area, gazing out at the unending drab tones of the tundra and drinking truly awful weak coffee. It was two weeks until the next ration drop and we only had half a jar left. The whole Station was being very careful around Dr Hagen, station leader and complete coffee addict. We had all learnt that the slight twitch to her left eyebrow indicated a lack of caffeine and a corresponding bad temper. Just as the boss pulled her notes towards her and we were dragging our attention back to work, in burst Molly, glasses in one hand and iPad in the other. “Pants! Dr Hagen” exclaimed Molly “Pants are the answer” There was a moment of confused silence before Dr Hagan, with only the slightest flicker to the eyebrow, agreed “Yes Dr O'Brady I am sure that in many circumstances pants are indeed the answer, but perhaps for the benefit of the room you might clarify?” “Well” said Molly, “We are trying to monitor soil degradation aren't we”? Every one nodded. “Pants are the answer, everyone is doing it, all over the world. It's even been on the Archers” Pausing for a short explanation to the non British staff Molly continued. “You get a bunch of identical cotton pants and bury them in different sites at the same depth and for the same length of time. Then three months later you dig them up and see how much they have decayed. The less pants left the better the health of the soil. Great hey”? “Mm, I believe there is a value to what you suggest Dr O'Brady” said Dr Hagen “I know there was a similar trial developed using tea bags” “But pants are so much more fun”! Interrupted Davies, one of the research assistants. “I'm not sure our primary objective is fun” said Dr Hagen quelling Davies with a look, “but I am happy for the idea to be explored”. “What sort of pants are we going too use”? Asked Ibrahim the other research assistant. “I mean there is so much choice, boxers, tighty whities, throngs...” “And lace” chipped in Davies “how would that effect the results?” Dr Hagen closed a file with a snap. “White cotton Y fronts, no lace, no thongs. Dr O'Brady you can have Davies and Ibrahim to do the foot work, Ferguson can supervise. Order the underwear to arrive with the next ration drop. Now if we could return to the scheduled meeting?”
Two weeks later disaster struck, the ration drop was postponed. No coffee, and no pants. Dr Hagan was shut in her room and everyone was making sure they did not attract her attention. I was in the kitchen sadly contemplating ancient teabag or oxo cube as a hot beverage when the Twins sidled up. The Twins is what everyone on the station calls the dream team that is Davies and Ibrahim. They may have been born hundreds of miles apart, and physically bore no resemblance but in personality and humour they moved as one. “So, pants, Ferguson” said Ibrahim “a sorry state of affairs.” “Yes a shame” I replied, opting for the oxo cube, “any delay and there won't be time to run the trial before the snows comes back.” “We think we have found a way to go ahead” said Davies, “all we need are some donations. I've had a look in the laundry..” “Stop there” I interrupted “ are we talking voluntary donations, or were you planning to just grab them? As your supervisor I don't want a line of angry colleagues banging on my door.” “I'm sure everyone will be willing to donate to this important scientific research” breezed Davies, and then caught my eye. “Oh OK, I'll ask first”.
By suppertime he was looking less sunny, apparently the men of the station were quite keen to hang on to their underpants. Ibrahim however was refusing to give up, and after an hour of his intense reasoned argument I had agreed to donate the last pack Mum had sent me. Davies was to provide the rest. The following day saw us out on the tundra, spades in hand, looking for likely sites for burial. The Twins dug while I rode shotgun, literally. No one in the Arctic starts anything away from camp without someone on Polar Bear watch. They dug, buried and marked, and we trudged on to the next likely site whilst I scanned the low hills and distant shoreline. Every time I scanned past The Twins I couldn't help notice Davies was not comfortable. He kept stopping to adjust his trousers and pull at the legs. Finally the last pair was buried and we headed towards the station, on the walk back Davies seemed increasingly uncomfortable and had developed a bit of a funny walk. Later in the kitchen sipping our miserable beverages I asked if he was OK. “Bit uncomfortable to be honest” he admitted, “I've buried all my undies and can't find any more to wear.” “Do you mean you are going commando”? Exclaimed Ibrahim stepping away “Dude!” “Sort it out” I said firmly, trying to portray the persona of a serious supervisor. “Go and get some ointment from the medic, and borrow some pants”! Davies waddled off with a giggling Ibrahim following and I went back to my oxo cube. “Job well done I told myself, good bit of management.” Little did I realise what I had unleashed.
The following morning I was working in the living area, and trying not to think about coffee when I became aware of activity building around me. “What's going on?” I asked Molly, taking out my earbuds. “Possible Polar Bear” she replied looking out of the window, “Electric fence is on the blink. I think the boss is about to declare a lock down.” A couple of minutes later the Tannoy crackled into life and lockdown was declared. The Twins drifted into the living area and joined me at the window. Peering through the metal bars that protected it we watched as an adolescent bear ambled around the site. “What's in it's mouth” asked Ibrahim “Looks like a plastic bag, something white” I replied. “Someone's going to be in trouble for not stashing the litter correctly”. “I don't think that is a plastic bag guys” said Ibrahim, who had picked up a pair of binoculars, “looks like material, Oh bugger.” “What” Davies and I asked although we both had a horrible feeling we knew the answer. “Pants” said Ibrahim, “tighty whities to be precise”. “I wonder why it has dug them up?” I mused, “I mean cotton doesn't really have much of smell. Nothing that would attract a bear.” I saw the look on Davies face and a truly horrible realisation came to me. “Your pants Davies, they were clean?” “It was a bit of a rush” blustered Davies “ you know we were having trouble sourcing them. I just grabbed them out of my laundry bag. We were burying them, I didn't think it mattered.” “Well that hypothesis has been disproved” I said nastily, “I only hope we don't come across the corpse of said bear, choked on a pair of smelly pants bearing the label property of T. Davies.”
We were several hours locked down, the only ray of sunshine being the bear looked remarkably healthy. I tried to ignore Davies. Eventually he sidled over with a mug, “I've made you a cup of that gravy you seem to like”. "Just be grateful it's not that awful tea the botany department tried to brew up last year” laughed Ibrahim. “Oh yes, Dubois was convinced she was a fairy after two cups” added Davies, pirouetting for dramatic effect. “Well your little problem seems to have cleared up” I said as he continued to prance about the living area. “Yeah” answered Davies sitting down and picking up his tea “thanks for the advice, much more comfortable now.” “And we can all breathe easier knowing you are back in underpants” I laughed. “I bet they were falling over themselves to lend you a pair!” I didn't like the look that passed between Davies and Ibrahim at this point. “What? Don't tell me you nicked them off some poor guy?” “Not a guy, no” replied Davies, “surprisingly the men of this station appear to possess very few pairs of pants, quite worrying really.” “They all have one more pair than you mate” chuckled Ibrahim. The full horror of their disclosure, and visions of a pain filled future began to sink in. “Please, please tell me you had full consent before borrowing some poor woman's underwear.” “Now, Ferguson, do you really think they would have said yes” asked Davies.” “It's fine, they all seem to have so many” added Ibrahim. “I'm sure they won't miss one pair from the laundry, probably won't even notice.” “I must say they are very comfortable” said Davies, sitting back in his chair and demonstrating a security that I reckoned would be very short lived. “Silky but stretchy at the same time, and a very pretty colour.” “Who's pants do you think he took?” I asked Ibrahim.
At that moment there was a crackling and the boss's voice came over the Tannoy, “Davies, Ibrahim and Ferguson, my office NOW!”
“It's not fair, it was all Molly's idea, so why are we three being sent to Coventry? Admittedly, Davies is pretty guilty, but we were just doing our best to run her experiment as instructed. We tackled the problems thrown at us and showed initiative and now all the female staff are not talking to us. It's not fair, it's discrimination I tell you!” Based on a small Arctic island, we are a quiet little research station on the whole. It can be pretty dull to tell you the truth. All we do is monitor the permafrost and try to avoid the biting flies. The scenery never changes and nothing ever happens, no one has discovered a jolly fat man running a toy workshop and nothing with an evil alien intent has tried to take us over one by one. So we have to make our own entertainment. We can get a little stir crazy, and that is often when someone comes up with “a really good idea!”
It all kicked off at our Monday morning meeting. Everyone was assembled in our living area, gazing out at the unending drab tones of the tundra and drinking truly awful weak coffee. It was two weeks until the next ration drop and we only had half a jar left. The whole Station was being very careful around Dr Hagen, station leader and complete coffee addict. We had all learnt that the slight twitch to her left eyebrow indicated a lack of caffeine and a corresponding bad temper. Just as the boss pulled her notes towards her and we were dragging our attention back to work, in burst Molly, glasses in one hand and iPad in the other. “Pants! Dr Hagen” exclaimed Molly “Pants are the answer” There was a moment of confused silence before Dr Hagan, with only the slightest flicker to the eyebrow, agreed “Yes Dr O'Brady I am sure that in many circumstances pants are indeed the answer, but perhaps for the benefit of the room you might clarify?” “Well” said Molly, “We are trying to monitor soil degradation aren't we”? Every one nodded. “Pants are the answer, everyone is doing it, all over the world. It's even been on the Archers” Pausing for a short explanation to the non British staff Molly continued. “You get a bunch of identical cotton pants and bury them in different sites at the same depth and for the same length of time. Then three months later you dig them up and see how much they have decayed. The less pants left the better the health of the soil. Great hey”? “Mm, I believe there is a value to what you suggest Dr O'Brady” said Dr Hagen “I know there was a similar trial developed using tea bags” “But pants are so much more fun”! Interrupted Davies, one of the research assistants. “I'm not sure our primary objective is fun” said Dr Hagen quelling Davies with a look, “but I am happy for the idea to be explored”. “What sort of pants are we going too use”? Asked Ibrahim the other research assistant. “I mean there is so much choice, boxers, tighty whities, throngs...” “And lace” chipped in Davies “how would that effect the results?” Dr Hagen closed a file with a snap. “White cotton Y fronts, no lace, no thongs. Dr O'Brady you can have Davies and Ibrahim to do the foot work, Ferguson can supervise. Order the underwear to arrive with the next ration drop. Now if we could return to the scheduled meeting?”
Two weeks later disaster struck, the ration drop was postponed. No coffee, and no pants. Dr Hagan was shut in her room and everyone was making sure they did not attract her attention. I was in the kitchen sadly contemplating ancient teabag or oxo cube as a hot beverage when the Twins sidled up. The Twins is what everyone on the station calls the dream team that is Davies and Ibrahim. They may have been born hundreds of miles apart, and physically bore no resemblance but in personality and humour they moved as one. “So, pants, Ferguson” said Ibrahim “a sorry state of affairs.” “Yes a shame” I replied, opting for the oxo cube, “any delay and there won't be time to run the trial before the snows comes back.” “We think we have found a way to go ahead” said Davies, “all we need are some donations. I've had a look in the laundry..” “Stop there” I interrupted “ are we talking voluntary donations, or were you planning to just grab them? As your supervisor I don't want a line of angry colleagues banging on my door.” “I'm sure everyone will be willing to donate to this important scientific research” breezed Davies, and then caught my eye. “Oh OK, I'll ask first”.
By suppertime he was looking less sunny, apparently the men of the station were quite keen to hang on to their underpants. Ibrahim however was refusing to give up, and after an hour of his intense reasoned argument I had agreed to donate the last pack Mum had sent me. Davies was to provide the rest. The following day saw us out on the tundra, spades in hand, looking for likely sites for burial. The Twins dug while I rode shotgun, literally. No one in the Arctic starts anything away from camp without someone on Polar Bear watch. They dug, buried and marked, and we trudged on to the next likely site whilst I scanned the low hills and distant shoreline. Every time I scanned past The Twins I couldn't help notice Davies was not comfortable. He kept stopping to adjust his trousers and pull at the legs. Finally the last pair was buried and we headed towards the station, on the walk back Davies seemed increasingly uncomfortable and had developed a bit of a funny walk. Later in the kitchen sipping our miserable beverages I asked if he was OK. “Bit uncomfortable to be honest” he admitted, “I've buried all my undies and can't find any more to wear.” “Do you mean you are going commando”? Exclaimed Ibrahim stepping away “Dude!” “Sort it out” I said firmly, trying to portray the persona of a serious supervisor. “Go and get some ointment from the medic, and borrow some pants”! Davies waddled off with a giggling Ibrahim following and I went back to my oxo cube. “Job well done I told myself, good bit of management.” Little did I realise what I had unleashed.
The following morning I was working in the living area, and trying not to think about coffee when I became aware of activity building around me. “What's going on?” I asked Molly, taking out my earbuds. “Possible Polar Bear” she replied looking out of the window, “Electric fence is on the blink. I think the boss is about to declare a lock down.” A couple of minutes later the Tannoy crackled into life and lockdown was declared. The Twins drifted into the living area and joined me at the window. Peering through the metal bars that protected it we watched as an adolescent bear ambled around the site. “What's in it's mouth” asked Ibrahim “Looks like a plastic bag, something white” I replied. “Someone's going to be in trouble for not stashing the litter correctly”. “I don't think that is a plastic bag guys” said Ibrahim, who had picked up a pair of binoculars, “looks like material, Oh bugger.” “What” Davies and I asked although we both had a horrible feeling we knew the answer. “Pants” said Ibrahim, “tighty whities to be precise”. “I wonder why it has dug them up?” I mused, “I mean cotton doesn't really have much of smell. Nothing that would attract a bear.” I saw the look on Davies face and a truly horrible realisation came to me. “Your pants Davies, they were clean?” “It was a bit of a rush” blustered Davies “ you know we were having trouble sourcing them. I just grabbed them out of my laundry bag. We were burying them, I didn't think it mattered.” “Well that hypothesis has been disproved” I said nastily, “I only hope we don't come across the corpse of said bear, choked on a pair of smelly pants bearing the label property of T. Davies.”
We were several hours locked down, the only ray of sunshine being the bear looked remarkably healthy. I tried to ignore Davies. Eventually he sidled over with a mug, “I've made you a cup of that gravy you seem to like”. "Just be grateful it's not that awful tea the botany department tried to brew up last year” laughed Ibrahim. “Oh yes, Dubois was convinced she was a fairy after two cups” added Davies, pirouetting for dramatic effect. “Well your little problem seems to have cleared up” I said as he continued to prance about the living area. “Yeah” answered Davies sitting down and picking up his tea “thanks for the advice, much more comfortable now.” “And we can all breathe easier knowing you are back in underpants” I laughed. “I bet they were falling over themselves to lend you a pair!” I didn't like the look that passed between Davies and Ibrahim at this point. “What? Don't tell me you nicked them off some poor guy?” “Not a guy, no” replied Davies, “surprisingly the men of this station appear to possess very few pairs of pants, quite worrying really.” “They all have one more pair than you mate” chuckled Ibrahim. The full horror of their disclosure, and visions of a pain filled future began to sink in. “Please, please tell me you had full consent before borrowing some poor woman's underwear.” “Now, Ferguson, do you really think they would have said yes” asked Davies.” “It's fine, they all seem to have so many” added Ibrahim. “I'm sure they won't miss one pair from the laundry, probably won't even notice.” “I must say they are very comfortable” said Davies, sitting back in his chair and demonstrating a security that I reckoned would be very short lived. “Silky but stretchy at the same time, and a very pretty colour.” “Who's pants do you think he took?” I asked Ibrahim.
At that moment there was a crackling and the boss's voice came over the Tannoy, “Davies, Ibrahim and Ferguson, my office NOW!”
Story 10.
What Happens in Jodiworld Stays in Jodiworld
The doors to the hall crashed open and in stormed Team 236, led by Commander Hay herself.
“Where is she?” Hay’s voice boomed in the cavernous room. Numerous historical figures, jumpsuit clad persons and even a couple of
dinosaurs all turned to face the intruders. There was a brief silence and then someone started clapping. Soon the whole room was applauding.
“Well done!” said Hazel. “Those costumes and that entry certainly merit a mention in the fancy dress competition. But you got the time wrong. Judging isn’t until this afternoon.” Hay looked from her team to the people around her.
“What the fire trucking hell? Who the fire trucking hell are all these weirdos? The time map showed no anomaly. Farrell, is this your mother’s doing?” Matthew looked as perplexed as his commander and yet still managed to scan the crowd in case his mum was there. He was rather disappointed when he didn’t spot her.
Hay felt that she was missing something and needed to regain whatever control she could. With a well-practiced sigh, she lowered her voice to a barely audible growl, tried to unclench her teeth and began again. “Where the fire trucking hell is Maxwell? We got a message and jumped to the co-ordinates given.” Another deep breath. “What is going on here?” An orange jumpsuit clad person handed her a large glass of something. Before she even realised it, Hay had taken a sip. Since when did she let her guard
slip so easily? Oh! Margarita. A strong one at that. Marietta looked down at the glass she was holding. Was that a plastic dinosaur floating in it? This brought her back to reality.
“Who’s in charge here? I demand to speak to the person in charge.”
The crowd of weirdos, no, not Team 236, all looked around and finally a gorgeous woman stepped forward.
“Hello, I’m Karin. How may I help you?”
Commander Hay stared at the vision in front of her. The woman was wearing a hoodie with a St. Mary’s logo on it. Was she a director from a different time? She shook her head and tried once more to focus on the task at hand.
“Why were we summoned here? We are not some service that St. Mary’s has at its disposal, you know.”
“Commander Hay, I assume.”
“Yes, how did you know? “
Her question was interrupted as once again the crowd were clapping and this time cheering too. Marietta felt completely at a loss to understand what was going on. And there was another glass in her hand. When had she finished the last one?
At this point a fine gentleman, reminiscent of Doctor Bairstow, made his way forward and offered Hay his arm. Like everyone else, Hay noticed, he had a name tag attached to his outfit.
“Come with me, my dear. You look overwrought. Maybe a sit down and another Margarita will help. Here, Mumsie will keep you company.” Russell manoeuvred the new arrivals out of the main line of fire and herded them towards the tea trolley on which were displayed some exceedingly good cakes. Hay had a mug of brown liquid forced into her empty hand. The other one seemed to
have yet another new margarita in it. At this point, three blue jumpsuit wearing women came rushing towards her. She knew that look. Maxwell was often seen sporting one of those. Hay knew that whatever was about to occur, it would not be good.
“It’s happened again.”
“Someone really ought to do something about it.”
“There are only so many copies of the book we can send out as apologies.”
The women were all talking at once. Hay considered firing her blaster to get their attention, but these margaritas were good. Maybe she could just let it all go over her head. Luckily, sensible Jane was with her and with a clang from the tea tray brought silence to the room.
“Right. You. Gorgeous one. I mean Karin. What is going on here?” Hay was back in control.
“Oh my God!” said Siobhan.” You really don’t know, do you? Does that mean… You really are HER?”
A gasp went up from the whole room. You could hear a hat pin fall!
“Sorry” squealed Allie. “I was just over excited. My hat pin spontaneously popped out of my chapeau.”
“Can we please get back to why the fire truck we are here?” Hay was impressed at how she was managing to stay calm.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
Marietta was impressed how sane Karin was among all these… these…. She had no words to describe the raucous rabble of reprobates.
“Welcome to JodiWorld.”
The smile on Karin’s face implied that this statement ought to mean something to her.
“JodiWorld. Not ringing any bells? No? Well, you’ve joined us at our first ever international get together celebrating Jodi Taylor’s work.”
“Whose?” Marietta still felt completely lost.
Karin chose to ignore THAT question and ploughed on.
“You are at the first ever fan-led convention for the wonderful Jodi Taylor and her prodigious writings. This is Coventry in the Midlands, and the date is 3rd June 2023.”
“Oh, Fire Trucking Hell! Not the twentieth century again!” Luke could feel a twitch develop in his left eye.
“Here, have a margarita. They’re great for medicinal purposes. It will help calm your nerves” said someone dressed as a blue swan.
Hay could see that no sense was going to be found anywhere in this room and realised that sometimes, the best defence was surrender. So, having drained yet another glass, she smiled at Russell and turned back to Karin.
“Alright. Start at the beginning. But before you do, might I have another one of these, please?”
“Well, we have a bit of a situation. One of our members has a bit of a problem.”
“She’s a cuckoo cuckoo or rather a maniacal magpie” interrupted Joe.
It was hard to read his name tag, with all the bouncing up and down he was doing.
“Thank you Mr. Tetsab. I’ll take it from here. We worry that she has spent a bit too much time with those nutters in R&D. That’s not the problem, however. It’s worse than that. She has a penchant for snatching strangers’ suitcases. Especially from trains.”
“We don’t know what to do” wailed Nicole. “Every time it happens, we send out a book by means of apology. But it keeps happening. And this time, Calimero has gone too far.”
“Who? What do you mean?” Marietta could feel the warmth of her fourth margarita coursing through her veins. Perhaps this lot weren’t so bad after all. Why were we here again? As she turned around, she noticed someone dressed as a dodo was dragging a suitcase towards her.
“What’s this?”
“I’ve just told you! It’s a stolen suitcase. The problem is, look at the name tag on the handle.”
Hay staggered rather than swaggered toward the purple case and reached down to grab hold of the name tag. After three tries she managed to grasp it. Squinting hard, she read the name ‘Godgifu’. What sort of name was that? Uncomprehending, she turned to the massing crowd. They were all just nodding sagely. Not for the first time, Hay wondered if she was getting too old for this sort of
thing. And where was North when you needed her? If history was so important, why the fire truck was she not there?
“We don’t know what to do about it.” Said a lady whose name tag read Liz.
“OK.” Marietta knew this lot were useless, but surely, they knew their own names. “Let’s start by seeing if anyone in this room is called… Godgifu. Maybe they are foreign. Maybe they don’t speak English. This is a hotel. You get all sorts here.”
She snorted. Hah! As if there could be weirder people than this lot here.
“I don’t think you understand.” said the gorgeous one, Karin. “Godgifu is the Anglo-Saxon name for Lady Godiva.”
“Oh. I know this one” exclaimed Luke excitedly. “She’s the bint who rode her horse naked through some town or other.”
“Godiva was the widow of Leofric, the Earl of Mercia. And unlike the silly nonsense for which she is incorrectly remembered, she ought to be held in great esteem as one of only a few Anglo-Saxons mentioned in the Domesday Survey and for being the only woman to remain as a major landholder after the Norman Conquest.”
From where she was sitting, Hay could practically hear Karin’s teeth gnash together as she gave Luke his history lesson. She decided to intervene before any of these weirdos did what many in the Time Police wanted to do – clobber Luke Parrish.
“This is all well and good, Karin, but what on earth is her case doing here?
Come to think of it, surely, they didn’t have suitcases, let alone purple ones, in 1066 and all that?”
“That’s the whole point! Where did this case come from and how did Calimero get hold of it? We can’t find her anywhere to ask and are now worried that something bad might have happened to her. Can you help us find her please?”
Hay wondered if it had been a mistake getting out of bed this morning as another drink was placed in her hand.
“Where was this Calimero last seen?” She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this. Here was the head of the Time Police, a feared organisation which had mere mortals quaking in their illegal boots, and yet for a few margaritas she could be bought and do St Mary’s bidding. But, those margaritas….
“Well, we saw her at Sutton Hoo and Kenilworth.”
“Oh, and she was at Salisbury as well. Did you know the world-famous cathedral there has a spire which is 123m tall?” piped up Nicole from behind her clipboard.
“I know she is here somewhere,” said Sally. “We shared a room last night and she kept me awake with her incessant snoring. I never knew anyone could be that loud!”
Suddenly, the door to the hall crashed open and in ran a giant teapot. Marietta knew this day couldn’t possibly get any worse so took another sip from her glass.
“Wait! Stop!”
The teapot staggered towards the suitcase and promptly toppled over. Who knew that running in a teapot costume is not as easy as one might think. As the occupant, identified as Calimero by her tag, was currently out of action, Commander Hay decided to take control. Again. Gingerly, she took hold of the buckles and tried to open them. Although very stiff, they finally gave enough to get the sticky-up bit out of their frames. Oh God, after so many margaritas she was turning into a Disaster Magnet! Prong! She could
pull the prong out of the frame. Having managed that, she looked to see if the clasps on the case had locks on them. Of course, they did.
“Let me have a go.” Bolshy Jane all but pushed Commander Hay out of the way and looked down at the locks.
“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from Matthew’s mum, it’s the value of a hair or hatpin.” Stretching up she removed a hairpin from her unruly mop and set to work. Within seconds, the lock sprung open. Commander Hay took immense pleasure in pushing Jane away from in front of the case and cracked her knuckles before gingerly releasing the latches. After glaring at the expectant crowd, she firmly grasped the lid with both hands. A deep breath and she pulled back the lid. Everyone drew back.
“Chocolate!”
Marietta opened first her right and then her left eye. The dodo was right. The case was full of chocolate. And not just any chocolate. These chocolates were the most indulgent gourmet chocolates. Belgian chocolates. What the fire truck?
“The chocolate bars are on me” croaked Calimero from the floor.
“Where is she?” Hay’s voice boomed in the cavernous room. Numerous historical figures, jumpsuit clad persons and even a couple of
dinosaurs all turned to face the intruders. There was a brief silence and then someone started clapping. Soon the whole room was applauding.
“Well done!” said Hazel. “Those costumes and that entry certainly merit a mention in the fancy dress competition. But you got the time wrong. Judging isn’t until this afternoon.” Hay looked from her team to the people around her.
“What the fire trucking hell? Who the fire trucking hell are all these weirdos? The time map showed no anomaly. Farrell, is this your mother’s doing?” Matthew looked as perplexed as his commander and yet still managed to scan the crowd in case his mum was there. He was rather disappointed when he didn’t spot her.
Hay felt that she was missing something and needed to regain whatever control she could. With a well-practiced sigh, she lowered her voice to a barely audible growl, tried to unclench her teeth and began again. “Where the fire trucking hell is Maxwell? We got a message and jumped to the co-ordinates given.” Another deep breath. “What is going on here?” An orange jumpsuit clad person handed her a large glass of something. Before she even realised it, Hay had taken a sip. Since when did she let her guard
slip so easily? Oh! Margarita. A strong one at that. Marietta looked down at the glass she was holding. Was that a plastic dinosaur floating in it? This brought her back to reality.
“Who’s in charge here? I demand to speak to the person in charge.”
The crowd of weirdos, no, not Team 236, all looked around and finally a gorgeous woman stepped forward.
“Hello, I’m Karin. How may I help you?”
Commander Hay stared at the vision in front of her. The woman was wearing a hoodie with a St. Mary’s logo on it. Was she a director from a different time? She shook her head and tried once more to focus on the task at hand.
“Why were we summoned here? We are not some service that St. Mary’s has at its disposal, you know.”
“Commander Hay, I assume.”
“Yes, how did you know? “
Her question was interrupted as once again the crowd were clapping and this time cheering too. Marietta felt completely at a loss to understand what was going on. And there was another glass in her hand. When had she finished the last one?
At this point a fine gentleman, reminiscent of Doctor Bairstow, made his way forward and offered Hay his arm. Like everyone else, Hay noticed, he had a name tag attached to his outfit.
“Come with me, my dear. You look overwrought. Maybe a sit down and another Margarita will help. Here, Mumsie will keep you company.” Russell manoeuvred the new arrivals out of the main line of fire and herded them towards the tea trolley on which were displayed some exceedingly good cakes. Hay had a mug of brown liquid forced into her empty hand. The other one seemed to
have yet another new margarita in it. At this point, three blue jumpsuit wearing women came rushing towards her. She knew that look. Maxwell was often seen sporting one of those. Hay knew that whatever was about to occur, it would not be good.
“It’s happened again.”
“Someone really ought to do something about it.”
“There are only so many copies of the book we can send out as apologies.”
The women were all talking at once. Hay considered firing her blaster to get their attention, but these margaritas were good. Maybe she could just let it all go over her head. Luckily, sensible Jane was with her and with a clang from the tea tray brought silence to the room.
“Right. You. Gorgeous one. I mean Karin. What is going on here?” Hay was back in control.
“Oh my God!” said Siobhan.” You really don’t know, do you? Does that mean… You really are HER?”
A gasp went up from the whole room. You could hear a hat pin fall!
“Sorry” squealed Allie. “I was just over excited. My hat pin spontaneously popped out of my chapeau.”
“Can we please get back to why the fire truck we are here?” Hay was impressed at how she was managing to stay calm.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
Marietta was impressed how sane Karin was among all these… these…. She had no words to describe the raucous rabble of reprobates.
“Welcome to JodiWorld.”
The smile on Karin’s face implied that this statement ought to mean something to her.
“JodiWorld. Not ringing any bells? No? Well, you’ve joined us at our first ever international get together celebrating Jodi Taylor’s work.”
“Whose?” Marietta still felt completely lost.
Karin chose to ignore THAT question and ploughed on.
“You are at the first ever fan-led convention for the wonderful Jodi Taylor and her prodigious writings. This is Coventry in the Midlands, and the date is 3rd June 2023.”
“Oh, Fire Trucking Hell! Not the twentieth century again!” Luke could feel a twitch develop in his left eye.
“Here, have a margarita. They’re great for medicinal purposes. It will help calm your nerves” said someone dressed as a blue swan.
Hay could see that no sense was going to be found anywhere in this room and realised that sometimes, the best defence was surrender. So, having drained yet another glass, she smiled at Russell and turned back to Karin.
“Alright. Start at the beginning. But before you do, might I have another one of these, please?”
“Well, we have a bit of a situation. One of our members has a bit of a problem.”
“She’s a cuckoo cuckoo or rather a maniacal magpie” interrupted Joe.
It was hard to read his name tag, with all the bouncing up and down he was doing.
“Thank you Mr. Tetsab. I’ll take it from here. We worry that she has spent a bit too much time with those nutters in R&D. That’s not the problem, however. It’s worse than that. She has a penchant for snatching strangers’ suitcases. Especially from trains.”
“We don’t know what to do” wailed Nicole. “Every time it happens, we send out a book by means of apology. But it keeps happening. And this time, Calimero has gone too far.”
“Who? What do you mean?” Marietta could feel the warmth of her fourth margarita coursing through her veins. Perhaps this lot weren’t so bad after all. Why were we here again? As she turned around, she noticed someone dressed as a dodo was dragging a suitcase towards her.
“What’s this?”
“I’ve just told you! It’s a stolen suitcase. The problem is, look at the name tag on the handle.”
Hay staggered rather than swaggered toward the purple case and reached down to grab hold of the name tag. After three tries she managed to grasp it. Squinting hard, she read the name ‘Godgifu’. What sort of name was that? Uncomprehending, she turned to the massing crowd. They were all just nodding sagely. Not for the first time, Hay wondered if she was getting too old for this sort of
thing. And where was North when you needed her? If history was so important, why the fire truck was she not there?
“We don’t know what to do about it.” Said a lady whose name tag read Liz.
“OK.” Marietta knew this lot were useless, but surely, they knew their own names. “Let’s start by seeing if anyone in this room is called… Godgifu. Maybe they are foreign. Maybe they don’t speak English. This is a hotel. You get all sorts here.”
She snorted. Hah! As if there could be weirder people than this lot here.
“I don’t think you understand.” said the gorgeous one, Karin. “Godgifu is the Anglo-Saxon name for Lady Godiva.”
“Oh. I know this one” exclaimed Luke excitedly. “She’s the bint who rode her horse naked through some town or other.”
“Godiva was the widow of Leofric, the Earl of Mercia. And unlike the silly nonsense for which she is incorrectly remembered, she ought to be held in great esteem as one of only a few Anglo-Saxons mentioned in the Domesday Survey and for being the only woman to remain as a major landholder after the Norman Conquest.”
From where she was sitting, Hay could practically hear Karin’s teeth gnash together as she gave Luke his history lesson. She decided to intervene before any of these weirdos did what many in the Time Police wanted to do – clobber Luke Parrish.
“This is all well and good, Karin, but what on earth is her case doing here?
Come to think of it, surely, they didn’t have suitcases, let alone purple ones, in 1066 and all that?”
“That’s the whole point! Where did this case come from and how did Calimero get hold of it? We can’t find her anywhere to ask and are now worried that something bad might have happened to her. Can you help us find her please?”
Hay wondered if it had been a mistake getting out of bed this morning as another drink was placed in her hand.
“Where was this Calimero last seen?” She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this. Here was the head of the Time Police, a feared organisation which had mere mortals quaking in their illegal boots, and yet for a few margaritas she could be bought and do St Mary’s bidding. But, those margaritas….
“Well, we saw her at Sutton Hoo and Kenilworth.”
“Oh, and she was at Salisbury as well. Did you know the world-famous cathedral there has a spire which is 123m tall?” piped up Nicole from behind her clipboard.
“I know she is here somewhere,” said Sally. “We shared a room last night and she kept me awake with her incessant snoring. I never knew anyone could be that loud!”
Suddenly, the door to the hall crashed open and in ran a giant teapot. Marietta knew this day couldn’t possibly get any worse so took another sip from her glass.
“Wait! Stop!”
The teapot staggered towards the suitcase and promptly toppled over. Who knew that running in a teapot costume is not as easy as one might think. As the occupant, identified as Calimero by her tag, was currently out of action, Commander Hay decided to take control. Again. Gingerly, she took hold of the buckles and tried to open them. Although very stiff, they finally gave enough to get the sticky-up bit out of their frames. Oh God, after so many margaritas she was turning into a Disaster Magnet! Prong! She could
pull the prong out of the frame. Having managed that, she looked to see if the clasps on the case had locks on them. Of course, they did.
“Let me have a go.” Bolshy Jane all but pushed Commander Hay out of the way and looked down at the locks.
“If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from Matthew’s mum, it’s the value of a hair or hatpin.” Stretching up she removed a hairpin from her unruly mop and set to work. Within seconds, the lock sprung open. Commander Hay took immense pleasure in pushing Jane away from in front of the case and cracked her knuckles before gingerly releasing the latches. After glaring at the expectant crowd, she firmly grasped the lid with both hands. A deep breath and she pulled back the lid. Everyone drew back.
“Chocolate!”
Marietta opened first her right and then her left eye. The dodo was right. The case was full of chocolate. And not just any chocolate. These chocolates were the most indulgent gourmet chocolates. Belgian chocolates. What the fire truck?
“The chocolate bars are on me” croaked Calimero from the floor.
Story 11.
What happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld
Convention Member 239 eased her car into a parking space in front of the hotel, and turned off the engine. For a long moment she sat in the driving seat, staring up at the hotel entrance, then took a deep breath. She felt excited. She felt nervous. She felt both thrilled and terrified. A first-timer at any Convention, she hardly knew what to expect, and could hardly wait to see what was to develop. She shook herself.
Time to find out.
Gathering her courage in both hands, she opened the car door and took out her luggage, one quite heavy suitcase and one small holdall, and walked slowly towards the front doors. As she stepped inside, she halted, shocked at the wall of sound which met her. People were milling around the foyer, pulling suitcases, greeting old friends, laughing and joking, excited and enthusiastic. 239 hardly knew what to do next. Then someone dressed as an Historian in a blue jumpsuit, wearing a Badge, came over and spoke kindly words of welcome, pointing to the reception desk where she was to register and be given her room key. At least, that was what 239 understood from the gestures the person was making, his words inaudible over the sheer volume of chatter around her. Gratefully she nodded her thanks and moved towards the desk.
Soon she was registered and clutching her lanyard and welcome pack. She was longing to explore the various fascinating stands and displays, and she was bewildered by the people wearing all sorts of costumes: Romans, kings and queens – was that really Mary, Queen of Scots over there? – Time Police – she was almost overwhelmed. And the big crowd gathered around a table near the wall briefly moved enough for her to see – it was the Great Author Herself! Gasping slightly, 239 started to move towards Her, but realised she was hampered by her bulky luggage. She was here for a whole weekend, she told herself. Sighing, she turned to the elevators and set off to find her room.
Once disencumbered, she was able to return to the maelstrom. Lanyard prominently on display, Jodiworld T-shirt to the fore, she started to explore. So much to see! And so many people! She didn’t know a single soul! But they all looked friendly enough, as excited as she felt herself.
She walked among the crowds of people, scanning lanyards for names she recognised. One or two were familiar to her from her time on Facebook, but she felt a little shy of speaking to them. Quite a few were dressed in ordinary clothes, as she was herself, with multi-coloured Jodiworld t-shirts abounding, some carrying mugs of tea and biscuits, although there was one woman, tottering along on impossibly high heels, carrying two very full wine glasses, and sipping from them alternately to make sure they did not overflow. And over it all, the hubbub of excited voices in English, Scottish and American accents – no doubt there were others which she could not yet discern – chattered loudly and excitedly. The crowd around the Great Author thinned momentarily, allowing her to glimpse the well-known and beloved face, seen hitherto only in the form of a photograph. Like a magnet she was drawn towards it. It was only as she drew close that she realised that the Other Great Author was sitting nearby, smiling and chatting to the friendly crowd gathered around. 239 drew in a deep breath of ecstasy. Not one, but two of her favourites! She had read both sets of books so many times she practically knew them off by heart!
At first, she lingered shyly on the edge of the crowd, listening to the bombardment of questions and comments. Then a kindly Roman, in white toga hemmed with purple and a laurel wreath perched precariously – and slightly crookedly - on his head, moved over and gently ushered her nearer to the front.
“We’re all in this together,” he said with a smile. She beamed shyly up at him, still too shy to speak, but grateful for the help.
Once at the table, she produced her copy of the Very First Book the Great Author had written, and asked for it to be signed. Tucking it gratefully into her capacious shoulder bag, she gravitated towards the Other Great Author, and produced his Very First Book for a signature. With a sigh of satisfaction, she moved away to let others in, and looked around again. There appeared to be a chicken
walking around – no, two chickens, making cluckling noises as they strutted about. They were followed by gales of laughter.
Suddenly she was assailed by two quite young girls, shrieking excitedly as they reached out to grab her. “Miss! Miss!” they were shouting. Frozen in horror she realised that they were actually past pupils of hers, obviously quite delighted to see her.
She should not have been surprised, really. It was an occupational hazard. Every shopping trip, every church service – there was sure to be someone who recognised her, student or parent. Fortunately, they were usually pleased to see her, and in fact she was usually pleased to see them, to hear what they had achieved since she had let them fly free into the community. These two were nice, friendly girls, grown up now, but still recognisable as the happy, carefree elevenyear-olds she had last seen several years ago. But here? Now? Her heart quavered a little, then steadied. After all, did it matter? It was nice to recognise someone, and to be recognised. But would it thrust a spoke in her wheels, so to speak? Or, indeed, in theirs? She forced a smile to her face.
“Hello, you two! Fancy seeing you here!”
“How are you, Miss? It’s your fault we’re here, really. You were always reading Her books in breaktime, and we thought we’d try them. And they’re great, aren’t they? We love them!”
It had always been part of her work as a teacher to foster a love of reading. She sighed. No good deed ever goes unpunished. Ah, well, she’d have to make the best of it – but what about – could she possibly, now? If they – her brain started to whirl…
“Are you dressing up, Miss? We’re going to be medieval servant girls. What are you going to be, Miss?” They chattered on happily, as 239 smiled and nodded and made some reply, all the while trying desperately to think, to decide…
She made a smiling excuse and moved away. This rather changed things. It had been hard enough to work up the courage as it was.
All evening, as the excitement carried on around her, 239 wondered what to do. Hilarity came in waves as different factions came face-to-face, Time Police using foam rubber truncheons to chase Roman soldiers, and various kitchen staff using ladles and tea towels to good effect. She even joined in with some of the antics herself, a little self-consciously trying to impede the Tine Police as they went about their rampage of arresting and “stringing” their victims, using brightly coloured spray cans of string. The clean-up was going to take a bit of doing, she reflected grimly.
Bedtime stories were quiet and peaceful. She felt herself relaxing a little, clutching a small teddy bear, as she listened to the beloved voice reading aloud. Tomorrow was, after all, another day. And what a day! A few bleary-eyed delegates sat quietly at breakfast, eating bacon rolls and drinking coffee. Sausages were much in evidence, too, and she partook generously of the available bounty. The Rushford Market stalls were being assembled and stocked, and she longed to check out the available merchandise.
But first – the Costume. So, returning to her room, she looked at the large suitcase. Could she? Did she dare? Had she dragged that enormous, heavy case here for nothing? Suddenly she drew herself up and squared her shoulders. No, by Jove, she was going to do it! If all those others were willing to enter into the fun and games, so was she! She opened the case and started pulling out her costume. It took quite a while to put on. She was glad of the full-length mirror on the back of the door. The feet, it turned out, were the most difficult bit to deal with, but she had practised at home, and was fairly sure she would manage, if she was careful. Gathering up all she thought she would need, and stowing it in her shoulder bag, she headed for the lift.
She was a little unprepared for the roar of approval which greeted her entrance. Loud laughter and many congratulations surrounded her as she was gently buffeted on her shoulder and led out into the concourse. She took up a little more room than usual, of course, a rather wide load, but she wasn’t alone in that. Angus the hen, followed by a small group of Patagonian Attack Chickens, was strutting a little way ahead, and there appeared to be a crocodile – no, an alligator slithering along the floor on wheels, led by several people in blue jumpsuits. Her range of vision was a little limited by the head section of her costume, but
she went carefully and managed not to trip up, until she reached a row of seats and collapsed thankfully into one. She had made sure, when constructing this costume, that she would be able to sit. And then came the moment she had been worried about. Her two erstwhile pupils skidded to a halt in front of her, mouths open wide in amazement and delight.
“A dodo, Miss! How fantastic! You are brilliant! Did you make it yourself? How did you do the feet?” They chattered on, and she was warmed by their approval. Her face, under the massive beak, relaxed into a smile, then a grin. Airily, she flapped a rudimentary wing, and confessed to a little help from others. Someone came and put a chilled glass into her hand. “A margarita. You deserve it!” And with a smile, Julius Caesar strolled away, leaving her stammering her thanks. But she looked anxiously at the glowing faces of
the two girls.
“Listen, you two. I’m glad you like my costume. Yours are great, by the way, just the right amount of “mediaevalness” about them. But there’s one thing –“ She hesitated, unsure how to go on. But the two girls nodded understandingly.
“Don’t worry, Miss. We’ll keep your secret,” said one of them.
“But one thing,” began the other. “If you turn your head away, or look down, so your face isn’t visible, could we -?” She held up a camera. “It would look great on Facebook,” she added yearningly. 239 felt herself yielding to persuasion.
“Well, all right,” she conceded. “But on condition you don’t –“
The two grinned happily at her. “Don’t worry, Miss,” said the first.
“Yes, what happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld,” said the second. And they snapped their pictures merrily.
Time to find out.
Gathering her courage in both hands, she opened the car door and took out her luggage, one quite heavy suitcase and one small holdall, and walked slowly towards the front doors. As she stepped inside, she halted, shocked at the wall of sound which met her. People were milling around the foyer, pulling suitcases, greeting old friends, laughing and joking, excited and enthusiastic. 239 hardly knew what to do next. Then someone dressed as an Historian in a blue jumpsuit, wearing a Badge, came over and spoke kindly words of welcome, pointing to the reception desk where she was to register and be given her room key. At least, that was what 239 understood from the gestures the person was making, his words inaudible over the sheer volume of chatter around her. Gratefully she nodded her thanks and moved towards the desk.
Soon she was registered and clutching her lanyard and welcome pack. She was longing to explore the various fascinating stands and displays, and she was bewildered by the people wearing all sorts of costumes: Romans, kings and queens – was that really Mary, Queen of Scots over there? – Time Police – she was almost overwhelmed. And the big crowd gathered around a table near the wall briefly moved enough for her to see – it was the Great Author Herself! Gasping slightly, 239 started to move towards Her, but realised she was hampered by her bulky luggage. She was here for a whole weekend, she told herself. Sighing, she turned to the elevators and set off to find her room.
Once disencumbered, she was able to return to the maelstrom. Lanyard prominently on display, Jodiworld T-shirt to the fore, she started to explore. So much to see! And so many people! She didn’t know a single soul! But they all looked friendly enough, as excited as she felt herself.
She walked among the crowds of people, scanning lanyards for names she recognised. One or two were familiar to her from her time on Facebook, but she felt a little shy of speaking to them. Quite a few were dressed in ordinary clothes, as she was herself, with multi-coloured Jodiworld t-shirts abounding, some carrying mugs of tea and biscuits, although there was one woman, tottering along on impossibly high heels, carrying two very full wine glasses, and sipping from them alternately to make sure they did not overflow. And over it all, the hubbub of excited voices in English, Scottish and American accents – no doubt there were others which she could not yet discern – chattered loudly and excitedly. The crowd around the Great Author thinned momentarily, allowing her to glimpse the well-known and beloved face, seen hitherto only in the form of a photograph. Like a magnet she was drawn towards it. It was only as she drew close that she realised that the Other Great Author was sitting nearby, smiling and chatting to the friendly crowd gathered around. 239 drew in a deep breath of ecstasy. Not one, but two of her favourites! She had read both sets of books so many times she practically knew them off by heart!
At first, she lingered shyly on the edge of the crowd, listening to the bombardment of questions and comments. Then a kindly Roman, in white toga hemmed with purple and a laurel wreath perched precariously – and slightly crookedly - on his head, moved over and gently ushered her nearer to the front.
“We’re all in this together,” he said with a smile. She beamed shyly up at him, still too shy to speak, but grateful for the help.
Once at the table, she produced her copy of the Very First Book the Great Author had written, and asked for it to be signed. Tucking it gratefully into her capacious shoulder bag, she gravitated towards the Other Great Author, and produced his Very First Book for a signature. With a sigh of satisfaction, she moved away to let others in, and looked around again. There appeared to be a chicken
walking around – no, two chickens, making cluckling noises as they strutted about. They were followed by gales of laughter.
Suddenly she was assailed by two quite young girls, shrieking excitedly as they reached out to grab her. “Miss! Miss!” they were shouting. Frozen in horror she realised that they were actually past pupils of hers, obviously quite delighted to see her.
She should not have been surprised, really. It was an occupational hazard. Every shopping trip, every church service – there was sure to be someone who recognised her, student or parent. Fortunately, they were usually pleased to see her, and in fact she was usually pleased to see them, to hear what they had achieved since she had let them fly free into the community. These two were nice, friendly girls, grown up now, but still recognisable as the happy, carefree elevenyear-olds she had last seen several years ago. But here? Now? Her heart quavered a little, then steadied. After all, did it matter? It was nice to recognise someone, and to be recognised. But would it thrust a spoke in her wheels, so to speak? Or, indeed, in theirs? She forced a smile to her face.
“Hello, you two! Fancy seeing you here!”
“How are you, Miss? It’s your fault we’re here, really. You were always reading Her books in breaktime, and we thought we’d try them. And they’re great, aren’t they? We love them!”
It had always been part of her work as a teacher to foster a love of reading. She sighed. No good deed ever goes unpunished. Ah, well, she’d have to make the best of it – but what about – could she possibly, now? If they – her brain started to whirl…
“Are you dressing up, Miss? We’re going to be medieval servant girls. What are you going to be, Miss?” They chattered on happily, as 239 smiled and nodded and made some reply, all the while trying desperately to think, to decide…
She made a smiling excuse and moved away. This rather changed things. It had been hard enough to work up the courage as it was.
All evening, as the excitement carried on around her, 239 wondered what to do. Hilarity came in waves as different factions came face-to-face, Time Police using foam rubber truncheons to chase Roman soldiers, and various kitchen staff using ladles and tea towels to good effect. She even joined in with some of the antics herself, a little self-consciously trying to impede the Tine Police as they went about their rampage of arresting and “stringing” their victims, using brightly coloured spray cans of string. The clean-up was going to take a bit of doing, she reflected grimly.
Bedtime stories were quiet and peaceful. She felt herself relaxing a little, clutching a small teddy bear, as she listened to the beloved voice reading aloud. Tomorrow was, after all, another day. And what a day! A few bleary-eyed delegates sat quietly at breakfast, eating bacon rolls and drinking coffee. Sausages were much in evidence, too, and she partook generously of the available bounty. The Rushford Market stalls were being assembled and stocked, and she longed to check out the available merchandise.
But first – the Costume. So, returning to her room, she looked at the large suitcase. Could she? Did she dare? Had she dragged that enormous, heavy case here for nothing? Suddenly she drew herself up and squared her shoulders. No, by Jove, she was going to do it! If all those others were willing to enter into the fun and games, so was she! She opened the case and started pulling out her costume. It took quite a while to put on. She was glad of the full-length mirror on the back of the door. The feet, it turned out, were the most difficult bit to deal with, but she had practised at home, and was fairly sure she would manage, if she was careful. Gathering up all she thought she would need, and stowing it in her shoulder bag, she headed for the lift.
She was a little unprepared for the roar of approval which greeted her entrance. Loud laughter and many congratulations surrounded her as she was gently buffeted on her shoulder and led out into the concourse. She took up a little more room than usual, of course, a rather wide load, but she wasn’t alone in that. Angus the hen, followed by a small group of Patagonian Attack Chickens, was strutting a little way ahead, and there appeared to be a crocodile – no, an alligator slithering along the floor on wheels, led by several people in blue jumpsuits. Her range of vision was a little limited by the head section of her costume, but
she went carefully and managed not to trip up, until she reached a row of seats and collapsed thankfully into one. She had made sure, when constructing this costume, that she would be able to sit. And then came the moment she had been worried about. Her two erstwhile pupils skidded to a halt in front of her, mouths open wide in amazement and delight.
“A dodo, Miss! How fantastic! You are brilliant! Did you make it yourself? How did you do the feet?” They chattered on, and she was warmed by their approval. Her face, under the massive beak, relaxed into a smile, then a grin. Airily, she flapped a rudimentary wing, and confessed to a little help from others. Someone came and put a chilled glass into her hand. “A margarita. You deserve it!” And with a smile, Julius Caesar strolled away, leaving her stammering her thanks. But she looked anxiously at the glowing faces of
the two girls.
“Listen, you two. I’m glad you like my costume. Yours are great, by the way, just the right amount of “mediaevalness” about them. But there’s one thing –“ She hesitated, unsure how to go on. But the two girls nodded understandingly.
“Don’t worry, Miss. We’ll keep your secret,” said one of them.
“But one thing,” began the other. “If you turn your head away, or look down, so your face isn’t visible, could we -?” She held up a camera. “It would look great on Facebook,” she added yearningly. 239 felt herself yielding to persuasion.
“Well, all right,” she conceded. “But on condition you don’t –“
The two grinned happily at her. “Don’t worry, Miss,” said the first.
“Yes, what happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld,” said the second. And they snapped their pictures merrily.
Story 12.
Sent to Coventry
A Prospero the Penguin story for children (or those young at heart)
Prospero was a penguin like no other - quite unique and very cheeky. For those of you who haven’t heard of Prospero yet… between you and me, Prospero can’t believe that you haven’t and he is crossing his flippers in a sulk, so I’d better catch you up quickly before I tell today’s story, as a penguin in a sulk is not a pretty sight.
Cheeky and inquisitive, Prospero was always getting into trouble - falling into ice holes, getting chased by hungry seals, or finding himself lost in ice caves. One snowy day, although that is not a strange occurrence in the Antarctic, Prospero came upon a strange little house full of funny looking people in fluffy suits looking at strange shiny things. Curious to find out what was going on, he sneaked into the house and started prodding at something with his beak. Before he knew it, someone had shut the top, and the next thing Prospero knew, he was waking up in Cambridge, facing a very confused Dr Steinberg. It had taken a while, but the two were now firm friends… even if neither really knew what the other was saying.
Cambridge is where our story starts, on a snowy day. In Cambridge, this is quite a strange occurrence. As usual, Prospero was pottering about Dr Steinberg’s office at the Scott Polar Institute. He was being his normal helpful self, splashing in forgotten cups of tea and waddling as fast as he could to see how much the paper on the desk would fly around. No doubt Dr Steinberg would soon appear to make the strange loud noises that humans made. Prospero was fairly sure that they meant “Well done Prospero. Thank you for your scientific experiments with water and paper.” While waddling around on the desk, Prospero saw a strange papery thing with plasticky bubbles inside. Jumping up and down on it, it made satisfying pop noises and felt very comfy. Prospero thought he would clamber inside and have a nice nap.
As our small hero slept, Mr Morton, the secretary, entered the office looking for the important parcel that needed to be sent to a school in Coventry. Dr Steinberg was sending some photos and information about their latest polar mission to share with children having their science week. Coming across a heavy, squidgy parcel, Mr Morton guessed this must be the one, so he sealed and stuck on the address before putting it in the Royal Mail sack ready for collection.
When Prospero awoke, it was very dark, and he was bouncing up and down while some terrible music played. He often found that humans played terrible music. It was even worse when they started singing along to it. Before long, the bouncing stopped and a hand reached into the sack and picked up Prospero’s parcel. Using the end of his beak to make a small hole, Prospero peeked out. He could hear small humans and saw a sign with happy looking small humans. The noises were changing - large humans now, and a strange ringing noise.
Enough was enough, he thought, so he gently pulled apart the hole with his flippers and squeezed out of the parcel. Slipping onto the floor, he decided to investigate where he had ended up. He heard a loud rumbling and so he hid behind a chair. He watched as a lady
with dark brown hair opened a lid, put in a piece of paper, and pressed a button. Out popped sheet after sheet of paper, all with the same black marks on them. He waited for her to go and waddled up to it. Maybe it worked for penguins, too - just imagine what a
hundred Prosperos could do! He climbed up to the top of the rumbly machine and lifted the lid… now, which button was it she had pressed? He pressed the big green button, but accidentally sat on some more. The rumbly machine rumbled into life. It made lots of
strange growling noises and started to shoot paper, not penguins, out of its sides. Prospero clambered down, disappointed and shaking his head. Humans really tried with all their machines, but they hadn’t quite got it right yet. As he waddled down the corridor, the sounds of loud large human voices followed him. They obviously weren’t impressed with the rumbly machine either.
A giggle made him look around, and before he could do anything, a very small human picked him up, shouting excitedly. Now in a very brightly coloured room, Prospero looked around. There were lots of small humans and things that looked like they needed investigating. He tried to wriggle out of the small human’s sticky grasp, but failed. The small human made cooing noises and carried Prospero towards a series of little clothes, before dressing Prospero in what he felt was a very undignified outfit and then wrapping him in a blanket. Pinned by a blanket and a firm cuddle, Prospero could only watch as he was moved around the room at lightning speed. It was definitely a fun-looking place, with small humans building things, squashing some kind of squishy stuff and splashing in water. He wanted to play too - cuddles were nice, but playing would be better. Starting to squirm out of from the cuddle, Prospero got his flippers free and made a bid for freedom. Laughing, the small human gave chase, and soon a whole line of them were giggling and chasing him around the room. He zigged and zagged, colliding with a tall tower, walking through something unpleasant and sticky, and having a satisfying splash in the tray of water. The small humans seemed to be realising they needed to work as a group and were beginning to close in on him. Deciding that investigating could wait for later, and perhaps making an exit was better,
Prospero slipped from the room, leaving the confused small humans behind.
Glorious smells were calling him down the corridor. Was that fish? Waddling at speed, Prospero followed his nose - well, I suppose his beak - in search of the source of the smell. The smell led him to a door. It was open and no one was inside. How could he get to the fish, he wondered - it was clearly hidden out of reach of penguins. If only he could get up there to eat it - why couldn’t penguins fly? Just then, he spotted a very pretty piece of fabric, dangling down. Although it was a bit damp and bubbly, that didn’t matter - he had a way up. He hauled himself upwards and over the top of the counter. Rushing forwards, he slipped on the shiny countertop and landed headfirst in… what was that? He sniffed. It smelt like fish - everything told him it was fish… but fish didn’t look like that. Deciding he’d better try a bit of all of the little dishes, he set to work.
Now, I am sure you have already worked out that Prospero is not a neat and tidy penguin. He waddled through the pies, smearing potato all over the counter and all over himself. Trying to free himself of the potato, he gave a little shake, and droplets of fish pie rained all over the kitchen. He tried rolling across the counter to wipe the bits off, but it was no use, it was not coming off.
Grumpy and covered in potato, he decided he needed another dip in the water tray. Jumping down, he made his way back to the little human’s room and was glad to find that empty as well. No doubt the little humans were outside. Taking his time, he went for a
lovely splash in the tray and decided that now his tummy was full, it was time to snuggle up in the lovely little bed in the corner and take a well-earned nap.
In her office by the front of the school, the head teacher, Mrs Callan, was having a rather frustrating day. She had been interrupted far too many times. Firstly by Mrs Meeling from the office to say that someone had caused a huge blockage in the photocopier by trying to print a thousand double-sided copies of what appeared to be a small black and white bottom. Then the reception class teacher was tearing her hair out at her unruly class who swore that they didn’t make the mess that was all over the floor - it was the funny black and white teddy bear that Alfie Barlow had found in the corridor that had made such a mess. Most recently, Mr Jones, the year 3 teacher, complained that someone had eaten half of the fish pies that the children had made and that had been left cooling in the DT room. What was more, the remaining pies appeared to have web-footed prints in the potato. Something
fishy was definitely going on, and she was going to find out what it was. She started in the office to see if there were any clues. Spotting an empty and ripped Jiffy bag stamped with “Scott Polar Institute” on the floor, she asked Mrs Meeling where the
pictures were from Dr Steinberg. Mrs Meeling knew nothing about the packet, and didn’t know why it was ripped and in the middle of the floor.
Next, she looked at the photocopied bottom - not something she thought she would have to do today, but working in school made one expect the unexpected. It was indeed black and white… and were those feathers? The DT room next, she thought, and entered to see total devastation. There were indeed lots of small web-footed footprints. They led from the DT room to the Reception classroom. Following them, and the trail of potato and fish, Mrs Callan thought she was onto something. In the Reception classroom the devastation and mess continued, although this wasn’t wholly unusual in the Reception classroom when the messy play activities were out. Was that more footprints? Coming to a halt by the home corner, she saw a small figure asleep in the dolls’ bed. It couldn’t be, could it? It was a penguin - not a stuffed and cuddly one, a real live penguin!
The real live penguin stretched and opened his eyes, looking up at the stern-looking large human above him. She had the same look his mother gave him when he done something wrong. He sighed,. This adventure might soon be over rather quicker than he thought. It turned out he was wrong. After a quick and heated phone call to the Scott Polar Institute, Mrs Callan agreed that as she didn’t have the photos for her assembly that afternoon, she would show the children Prospero instead, and then Dr Steinberg would collect him at the end of the day to prevent further chaos.
Well, it’s hard to say who enjoyed that afternoon more, Prospero or the children. Prospero loved being the centre of attention. He waved and waddled at the children, and they in turn stared in awe and wonder. The children drew pictures of him and made models - he definitely felt very important. He had lots of hugs and was fed all the left overs from the fish pies, so that when Dr Steinberg came to collect him, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.
It's OK though, Prospero - we know that you will find somewhere else to investigate, and no doubt cause mischief in, tomorrow.
Cheeky and inquisitive, Prospero was always getting into trouble - falling into ice holes, getting chased by hungry seals, or finding himself lost in ice caves. One snowy day, although that is not a strange occurrence in the Antarctic, Prospero came upon a strange little house full of funny looking people in fluffy suits looking at strange shiny things. Curious to find out what was going on, he sneaked into the house and started prodding at something with his beak. Before he knew it, someone had shut the top, and the next thing Prospero knew, he was waking up in Cambridge, facing a very confused Dr Steinberg. It had taken a while, but the two were now firm friends… even if neither really knew what the other was saying.
Cambridge is where our story starts, on a snowy day. In Cambridge, this is quite a strange occurrence. As usual, Prospero was pottering about Dr Steinberg’s office at the Scott Polar Institute. He was being his normal helpful self, splashing in forgotten cups of tea and waddling as fast as he could to see how much the paper on the desk would fly around. No doubt Dr Steinberg would soon appear to make the strange loud noises that humans made. Prospero was fairly sure that they meant “Well done Prospero. Thank you for your scientific experiments with water and paper.” While waddling around on the desk, Prospero saw a strange papery thing with plasticky bubbles inside. Jumping up and down on it, it made satisfying pop noises and felt very comfy. Prospero thought he would clamber inside and have a nice nap.
As our small hero slept, Mr Morton, the secretary, entered the office looking for the important parcel that needed to be sent to a school in Coventry. Dr Steinberg was sending some photos and information about their latest polar mission to share with children having their science week. Coming across a heavy, squidgy parcel, Mr Morton guessed this must be the one, so he sealed and stuck on the address before putting it in the Royal Mail sack ready for collection.
When Prospero awoke, it was very dark, and he was bouncing up and down while some terrible music played. He often found that humans played terrible music. It was even worse when they started singing along to it. Before long, the bouncing stopped and a hand reached into the sack and picked up Prospero’s parcel. Using the end of his beak to make a small hole, Prospero peeked out. He could hear small humans and saw a sign with happy looking small humans. The noises were changing - large humans now, and a strange ringing noise.
Enough was enough, he thought, so he gently pulled apart the hole with his flippers and squeezed out of the parcel. Slipping onto the floor, he decided to investigate where he had ended up. He heard a loud rumbling and so he hid behind a chair. He watched as a lady
with dark brown hair opened a lid, put in a piece of paper, and pressed a button. Out popped sheet after sheet of paper, all with the same black marks on them. He waited for her to go and waddled up to it. Maybe it worked for penguins, too - just imagine what a
hundred Prosperos could do! He climbed up to the top of the rumbly machine and lifted the lid… now, which button was it she had pressed? He pressed the big green button, but accidentally sat on some more. The rumbly machine rumbled into life. It made lots of
strange growling noises and started to shoot paper, not penguins, out of its sides. Prospero clambered down, disappointed and shaking his head. Humans really tried with all their machines, but they hadn’t quite got it right yet. As he waddled down the corridor, the sounds of loud large human voices followed him. They obviously weren’t impressed with the rumbly machine either.
A giggle made him look around, and before he could do anything, a very small human picked him up, shouting excitedly. Now in a very brightly coloured room, Prospero looked around. There were lots of small humans and things that looked like they needed investigating. He tried to wriggle out of the small human’s sticky grasp, but failed. The small human made cooing noises and carried Prospero towards a series of little clothes, before dressing Prospero in what he felt was a very undignified outfit and then wrapping him in a blanket. Pinned by a blanket and a firm cuddle, Prospero could only watch as he was moved around the room at lightning speed. It was definitely a fun-looking place, with small humans building things, squashing some kind of squishy stuff and splashing in water. He wanted to play too - cuddles were nice, but playing would be better. Starting to squirm out of from the cuddle, Prospero got his flippers free and made a bid for freedom. Laughing, the small human gave chase, and soon a whole line of them were giggling and chasing him around the room. He zigged and zagged, colliding with a tall tower, walking through something unpleasant and sticky, and having a satisfying splash in the tray of water. The small humans seemed to be realising they needed to work as a group and were beginning to close in on him. Deciding that investigating could wait for later, and perhaps making an exit was better,
Prospero slipped from the room, leaving the confused small humans behind.
Glorious smells were calling him down the corridor. Was that fish? Waddling at speed, Prospero followed his nose - well, I suppose his beak - in search of the source of the smell. The smell led him to a door. It was open and no one was inside. How could he get to the fish, he wondered - it was clearly hidden out of reach of penguins. If only he could get up there to eat it - why couldn’t penguins fly? Just then, he spotted a very pretty piece of fabric, dangling down. Although it was a bit damp and bubbly, that didn’t matter - he had a way up. He hauled himself upwards and over the top of the counter. Rushing forwards, he slipped on the shiny countertop and landed headfirst in… what was that? He sniffed. It smelt like fish - everything told him it was fish… but fish didn’t look like that. Deciding he’d better try a bit of all of the little dishes, he set to work.
Now, I am sure you have already worked out that Prospero is not a neat and tidy penguin. He waddled through the pies, smearing potato all over the counter and all over himself. Trying to free himself of the potato, he gave a little shake, and droplets of fish pie rained all over the kitchen. He tried rolling across the counter to wipe the bits off, but it was no use, it was not coming off.
Grumpy and covered in potato, he decided he needed another dip in the water tray. Jumping down, he made his way back to the little human’s room and was glad to find that empty as well. No doubt the little humans were outside. Taking his time, he went for a
lovely splash in the tray and decided that now his tummy was full, it was time to snuggle up in the lovely little bed in the corner and take a well-earned nap.
In her office by the front of the school, the head teacher, Mrs Callan, was having a rather frustrating day. She had been interrupted far too many times. Firstly by Mrs Meeling from the office to say that someone had caused a huge blockage in the photocopier by trying to print a thousand double-sided copies of what appeared to be a small black and white bottom. Then the reception class teacher was tearing her hair out at her unruly class who swore that they didn’t make the mess that was all over the floor - it was the funny black and white teddy bear that Alfie Barlow had found in the corridor that had made such a mess. Most recently, Mr Jones, the year 3 teacher, complained that someone had eaten half of the fish pies that the children had made and that had been left cooling in the DT room. What was more, the remaining pies appeared to have web-footed prints in the potato. Something
fishy was definitely going on, and she was going to find out what it was. She started in the office to see if there were any clues. Spotting an empty and ripped Jiffy bag stamped with “Scott Polar Institute” on the floor, she asked Mrs Meeling where the
pictures were from Dr Steinberg. Mrs Meeling knew nothing about the packet, and didn’t know why it was ripped and in the middle of the floor.
Next, she looked at the photocopied bottom - not something she thought she would have to do today, but working in school made one expect the unexpected. It was indeed black and white… and were those feathers? The DT room next, she thought, and entered to see total devastation. There were indeed lots of small web-footed footprints. They led from the DT room to the Reception classroom. Following them, and the trail of potato and fish, Mrs Callan thought she was onto something. In the Reception classroom the devastation and mess continued, although this wasn’t wholly unusual in the Reception classroom when the messy play activities were out. Was that more footprints? Coming to a halt by the home corner, she saw a small figure asleep in the dolls’ bed. It couldn’t be, could it? It was a penguin - not a stuffed and cuddly one, a real live penguin!
The real live penguin stretched and opened his eyes, looking up at the stern-looking large human above him. She had the same look his mother gave him when he done something wrong. He sighed,. This adventure might soon be over rather quicker than he thought. It turned out he was wrong. After a quick and heated phone call to the Scott Polar Institute, Mrs Callan agreed that as she didn’t have the photos for her assembly that afternoon, she would show the children Prospero instead, and then Dr Steinberg would collect him at the end of the day to prevent further chaos.
Well, it’s hard to say who enjoyed that afternoon more, Prospero or the children. Prospero loved being the centre of attention. He waved and waddled at the children, and they in turn stared in awe and wonder. The children drew pictures of him and made models - he definitely felt very important. He had lots of hugs and was fed all the left overs from the fish pies, so that when Dr Steinberg came to collect him, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.
It's OK though, Prospero - we know that you will find somewhere else to investigate, and no doubt cause mischief in, tomorrow.
Story 13.
How the Dodos became native to Spain
“Grockle… Grockle”… A strange sound startled Mumsie out of her concentration and she looked up from her Spanish-English dictionary. She was deeply immersed in translating a letter from the building society about changes on top of the apartment
building where she lived with Russell, when the startling sound emerged from the kitchen. Soft shushing sounds and low mumbling followed it.
“Russell…? Is everything alright there, dear?” she asked, slightly amused. Russell popped his head around the doorway, grinning nervously. “Yes Mumsie, I am fine.”
“What was that noise I heard? Sounded like your tummy is upset again? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten those tapas yesterday!” she said, turning her focus back to an elusive word which she knew she had to know the meaning of, but couldn’t find the right translation for.
“No Mumsie, I feel fine! No need to worry” stammered Russell, a slight blush colouring his cheeks. “I was making some coffee in the kitchen, would you like some tea? You have to keep hydrated, like the doctor told you...”
“Yes please dear, the one I have here is getting cold” she answered, distracted by the letter in front of her.
“Alrighty then! I’ll put the kettle on,” Russell replied, ducking back into the kitchen.
“Grockle… Grockle!” A crashing sound of plates and cutlery followed soon after. A content “Plock!” followed.
Mumsie looked up, frowning. “Russell! What are you doing in the kitchen?” She started to get up to take a look, when Russell hurried out of the kitchen with slightly frazzled look.
“N..n..n..nothing Mumsie” he stammered, “just a little clumsy putting the plates back on the shelf.”
“Hmmm… better not have broken my favourite plate there, or there will be consequences involving a frying pan” she said threatening.
“No, no Mumsie, that one is perfectly safe, stacked on the shelf!” he replied, turning back to the kitchen.
“Oh and Russell…” “yes Mumsie?” “How about that tea you promised?” “Ah yes!” he exclaimed, “Coming right up!” rushing back.
“Grockle, GROCKLE!” Mumsie sighed deeply and called out again: “RUSSELL…!
“ He peered around the corner, “yes Mumsie?”
“About that sound… are you sure about your tummy? Should you be having more coffee? I knew the tapas looked iffy, even when Sanjeev assured us they were fresh…”
He replies: “no Mumsie, really, I’m fine! Remember the article about the extinction of the Dodos on Mauritius?” “Yes… go on…”
“Well…” he hesitated, turning the cup of luke warm tea in his hands, “I was thinking about it whilst making coffee this morning and..”
“Yes…?” said Mumsie with a light frown showing on her face.
“Erm…” he said, “I was wondering what they sounded like…so I was trying out some sounds and the kitchen has the perfect acoustics for it!”
He put down the cup near Mumsie and hurried back into the kitchen. Mumsie shook her head wearily and turned her attention back to the work at hand.
“GROCKLE, GROCKLE, GROCKLE!! Grockle, PLOCK!”
“That does it! I have had enough! Time to check this strange occurrence out” she thought to herself. Carefully steering her walker through the living room, she clutched her disciplinary frying pan in her right hand. In the middle of the kitchen, wrestling a dodo for the remnants of a Victoria sponge cake stood Russell, on one leg, with the other keeping another dodo at bay, surrounded by fallen plates and cutlery and pieces of cake on the floor.
“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” she roared.
Russell looked up, mortified. “Oh... hi Mumsie… these are Mortimer and Brenda, two dodos…” his voice trailed to a stop under the severe glare of his mum. “What… how… when…?” she asked.
He replied: “erm… remember when the extra addition to the roof was done..? Well… it was actually a pathfinder pod for VSM… and I went back to Mauritius to take a look and they followed me..! Please Mumsie..? Can we keep them? I promise to take good care of them!”
Mumsie sighed deeply, shook her head wearily and nodded. “Alright, but we need to keep the sound down, you know that the neighbours will complain and we aren’t technically allowed to keep pets in the apartment!”
A soft “grockle” escapes from the beak of Brenda, the dodo on the floor. She pecks softly at a piece of cake, plocking contentedly to herself. Mortimer managed to slip out of Russell’s grip, flying in an ungainly fashion up on top of his head where he pecked at a piece of stray cake, while fluffing the hair up into a little nest.
Mumsie picked up a piece of cake, put it on an unbroken plate and wheeled back to her armchair.
“Don’t forget to clean up the mess in the kitchen! And get some bird feed for those two, Victoria sponge cake is not proper food for them, they look like they could lose some weight!” she called out to him, while picking up her dictionary and returning her
attention to the letter.
The neighbours didn’t complain, being used to the strange habits of the weird “Ingles” living on the third floor. Mortimer and his mate grockled and plocked contentedly on the balcony, with Russell smoking his cigarette in the Spanish winter sunshine,
wearily keeping an eye on their antics.
And that my, dear readers, is how Russell and Mumsie got two new roommates and how dodos became native to Spain...
building where she lived with Russell, when the startling sound emerged from the kitchen. Soft shushing sounds and low mumbling followed it.
“Russell…? Is everything alright there, dear?” she asked, slightly amused. Russell popped his head around the doorway, grinning nervously. “Yes Mumsie, I am fine.”
“What was that noise I heard? Sounded like your tummy is upset again? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten those tapas yesterday!” she said, turning her focus back to an elusive word which she knew she had to know the meaning of, but couldn’t find the right translation for.
“No Mumsie, I feel fine! No need to worry” stammered Russell, a slight blush colouring his cheeks. “I was making some coffee in the kitchen, would you like some tea? You have to keep hydrated, like the doctor told you...”
“Yes please dear, the one I have here is getting cold” she answered, distracted by the letter in front of her.
“Alrighty then! I’ll put the kettle on,” Russell replied, ducking back into the kitchen.
“Grockle… Grockle!” A crashing sound of plates and cutlery followed soon after. A content “Plock!” followed.
Mumsie looked up, frowning. “Russell! What are you doing in the kitchen?” She started to get up to take a look, when Russell hurried out of the kitchen with slightly frazzled look.
“N..n..n..nothing Mumsie” he stammered, “just a little clumsy putting the plates back on the shelf.”
“Hmmm… better not have broken my favourite plate there, or there will be consequences involving a frying pan” she said threatening.
“No, no Mumsie, that one is perfectly safe, stacked on the shelf!” he replied, turning back to the kitchen.
“Oh and Russell…” “yes Mumsie?” “How about that tea you promised?” “Ah yes!” he exclaimed, “Coming right up!” rushing back.
“Grockle, GROCKLE!” Mumsie sighed deeply and called out again: “RUSSELL…!
“ He peered around the corner, “yes Mumsie?”
“About that sound… are you sure about your tummy? Should you be having more coffee? I knew the tapas looked iffy, even when Sanjeev assured us they were fresh…”
He replies: “no Mumsie, really, I’m fine! Remember the article about the extinction of the Dodos on Mauritius?” “Yes… go on…”
“Well…” he hesitated, turning the cup of luke warm tea in his hands, “I was thinking about it whilst making coffee this morning and..”
“Yes…?” said Mumsie with a light frown showing on her face.
“Erm…” he said, “I was wondering what they sounded like…so I was trying out some sounds and the kitchen has the perfect acoustics for it!”
He put down the cup near Mumsie and hurried back into the kitchen. Mumsie shook her head wearily and turned her attention back to the work at hand.
“GROCKLE, GROCKLE, GROCKLE!! Grockle, PLOCK!”
“That does it! I have had enough! Time to check this strange occurrence out” she thought to herself. Carefully steering her walker through the living room, she clutched her disciplinary frying pan in her right hand. In the middle of the kitchen, wrestling a dodo for the remnants of a Victoria sponge cake stood Russell, on one leg, with the other keeping another dodo at bay, surrounded by fallen plates and cutlery and pieces of cake on the floor.
“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” she roared.
Russell looked up, mortified. “Oh... hi Mumsie… these are Mortimer and Brenda, two dodos…” his voice trailed to a stop under the severe glare of his mum. “What… how… when…?” she asked.
He replied: “erm… remember when the extra addition to the roof was done..? Well… it was actually a pathfinder pod for VSM… and I went back to Mauritius to take a look and they followed me..! Please Mumsie..? Can we keep them? I promise to take good care of them!”
Mumsie sighed deeply, shook her head wearily and nodded. “Alright, but we need to keep the sound down, you know that the neighbours will complain and we aren’t technically allowed to keep pets in the apartment!”
A soft “grockle” escapes from the beak of Brenda, the dodo on the floor. She pecks softly at a piece of cake, plocking contentedly to herself. Mortimer managed to slip out of Russell’s grip, flying in an ungainly fashion up on top of his head where he pecked at a piece of stray cake, while fluffing the hair up into a little nest.
Mumsie picked up a piece of cake, put it on an unbroken plate and wheeled back to her armchair.
“Don’t forget to clean up the mess in the kitchen! And get some bird feed for those two, Victoria sponge cake is not proper food for them, they look like they could lose some weight!” she called out to him, while picking up her dictionary and returning her
attention to the letter.
The neighbours didn’t complain, being used to the strange habits of the weird “Ingles” living on the third floor. Mortimer and his mate grockled and plocked contentedly on the balcony, with Russell smoking his cigarette in the Spanish winter sunshine,
wearily keeping an eye on their antics.
And that my, dear readers, is how Russell and Mumsie got two new roommates and how dodos became native to Spain...
Story 14
What Happens at Jodiworld…
Thinking about it later, the mistake had been the dodo costume. After all, attending the convention surely was no mistake. The limitations of space in the suitcase to allow for a non-pneumatic outfit were unavoidable. And no self-respecting Jodi fan could possible consider a warming mug of hot chocolate to be an error, although, admittedly, the warming effects are more commonly appreciated when taken internally. But I get ahead of myself. Not unlike the dodo’s beak.
I consider myself a fan of Jodi’s work, have indeed managed to convert a few of my friends, and as such I was understandably fascinated to discover that a fan convention was in the offing. I am, by nature (contrary to what colleagues at work have been conned into believing) an introvert, happiest, oddly enough, with my nose in a book. However, for this, I would make an exception. In amongst the practicalities of considering transport, accommodation, googling of the hotel menus, booking leave, my mind turned to appropriate attire. Here is, perhaps, the moment to make a small confession: I cannot sew. This is to the disappointment of my mother, who is very able at needlecraft, and the despair of my bosses when I was a lowly surgical house officer. Relax, I did not become a surgeon…though I have managed to stitch my glove to the umbilical stump when securing an arterial line. Twice.
So, dragging myself relentlessly back to the point, I did not have high hopes of being able to sew myself an authentic historical outfit. Perhaps I could feckle an approximation to Team Weird’s toga attempts? But no, even that was likely to be beyond my capabilities. And so I turned to the option of internet shopping: reader, I was not inspired. I swiped through pages, and pages, of poorly made inauthentically fabricated outfits. My choices were further limited by not wishing to display a stretch of bosom more fitted to a breastfeeding awareness advert. I tried thinking laterally, browsing images of dinosaurs and swans, rabbits and kangaroos, dodos and…hmmm. A tiny glimmering of a thought entered my mind: if people could make inflatable dinosaur costumes, then perhaps inflated balloons could be used to add volume to a dodo costume, perhaps crafted primarily from heavy duty paper and card. And thus, sadly, an idea was born.
The gem of a thought is not, sadly, prone to leaping effortlessly into the material world. Sourcing appropriate materials, whilst simultaneously convincing the proprietors of the local craft shop that I was not, in fact, a primary school teacher, was a bit of a challenge. But this was nothing compared to the difficulties of actually designing and constructing this monstrosity. Ironically, perhaps, the element of the process which caused me the least trepidation was the thought of creating a dodo head to cover my own. After all, I had previously successfully devised an articulated dragon head for my mother to wear during World Book Day. Yes, she was a primary school teacher, the shop owner was not far wrong. Hours of labour followed. Tracing, cutting, sticking, stapling, swearing. Lots and lots of swearing. I may actually have invented some swear words: we were far past fire trucking here, and probably beyond bloody bollocking hell. After multiple false starts, abandoned attempts, and breaks for restorative chocolate, finally I had something that was almost but not entirely unlike a dodo. A framework of stapled cardboard supported a shell of sugar paper, adorned with fake feathers, and my shoulders supported a bizarre approximation to a dodo head. It was painfully apparent that I would need to take with me a repair kit of glue, sticky tape, stapler, spare paper, cuddly toy, fondue set, crystal decanter…okay, maybe not the last one. I was not even sure that I could don and doff this dubious work of art without indulging in major alterations. But at least I hadn’t tried to add a droppings pouch to the complexity, or a light up nose. Nose? Snout? Beak? Beak! The main body pretty much folded flat, so could probably fit in a suitcase, but I was concerned that it was lacking in, well, body. Volume. This is where I returned to my idea of balloons. By inserting an uninflated balloon, or possibly two, into the protruding rump of the bird, and then inflating them in situ, I thought I could probably generate a pleasing fullness. Albeit at the cost of the ability to sit down. Did I mention that I’m mobility impaired and thus actually quite good at sitting? However, great art demands great sacrifices! So this mediocre craft at least politely enquired after the possibility of a few minor adjustments. Though it would perhaps be prudent to allow for sufficient arm movement to allow for the use of my walking stick.
Further experimentation followed, with the successive inflation of a variety of differently shaped balloons, striving to find a combination that allowed for insertion, expansion, fullness, and appropriate movement. That last sentence got away from me a little, I think. Regardless, with innovation worthy of the most reckless R&D department, I finally beheld the results of my endeavours: a now somewhat portly dodo exoskeleton surrounding my own alas portly body. Perhaps there had been a little too much consolatory chocolate? But no! That would be heresy!
The next step was packing. Fortunately, owing to my predilection for holidays (I like cruising, and indeed confess an appropriate preference for Cunard), I had a variety of baggage to choose from, much of it conveniently equipped with wheels. It has been observed that wheeled luggage may have been one of the single greatest strides forward for women’s liberation, and I would tend to agree. Now, if we could only sort out the pockets situation! Wrapping my costume carefully in extra large black plastic bin bags (unused), I cautiously cushioned it in my suitcase, padded by the surrounding assortment of conference t shirts, best pair of pyjamas and dressing gown (for the promised bedtime story reading) and nestled in the emergency repair kit. I believe the latter contained a wider range of potentially vital equipment than the average surgical theatres sterile supplies unit. Expeditions to the summit of Everest have gone ahead with less planning. The head, however, would not fit, and after much thought was shoehorned into a small backpack.
I had elected to travel down to Coventry, from the northern remoteness of the Cumbrian coast, on the Thursday, to avoid any risk of travel delays precipitating not just fear of tardiness, but even the actual catastrophic missing of events. The ongoing industrial disputes with the rail service, and the perennial disruptions to the West Coast Main Line, meant that I had reluctantly conceded that the safest and most reliable option would be to drive, risking the notorious vagaries of the M6. I generally drive relatively little, sometimes not taking the car outside Cumbria from one year to the next, which meant that there was no small degree of trepidation felt at the prospect. I prepared thoroughly, checking alternative routes – does one risk the M6 Toll or not? – and programming the hotel’s postcode into the map function of my phone. This turned out to be a mistake. It transpired, after much cursing, pressing buttons, attaching and removing wires, and even resorting to google, that if I activated the map function when not in the car it thought I was walking, and kept turning the screen off if it wasn’t touched for 20 seconds. It would seem one has to activate the satnav when the phone has figured out that you’re in the car for it to concede that you might want it to stay on whilst you’re driving. I managed to figure that out in a stop at Tebay services (great farm shop if you happen to be passing), and the course thereafter was somewhat smoother. Modern technology is such a blessing. The journey otherwise passed relatively routinely. It is, after all, routine for the M6 through the Midlands to be a circle of hell made up of lengthy road works, speed restrictions, contraflows, traffic jams, and a variety of vehicles all driven by idiots. It was a great relief to reach the Doubletree Hotel. Alive.
Dragging my belongings into the foyer, I was warmly welcomed by the staff. Eyeing me up and down, they enquired whether I might be one of those convention nutters, to which I eagerly affirmed. Maybe it was the T shirt that gave the game away. Or the dodo head sticking out of my rucksack. As they processed my booking, they suggested I might want to pop down to the bar in the evening, as if I waved a book around some kindred spirits might spot the recognition signal.
Having partially unpacked (does anyone ever bother to totally unpack in a hotel room? Why?) , and performed basic checks upon the structural integrity of the dodo, I headed downstairs in search of sustenance. Hopefully not soup. Or a toastie. Having checked out the menu months earlier, I felt confident I knew what to order. My hopes were dashed, however, when I discovered that the food offerings had changed. This completely destroyed my nascent intention of a healthy salad, and rapidly I was tucking into a much more satisfying burger, whilst perusing my kindle. Afterwards, heading into the bar, I did indeed encounter several other early arrivals, hiding in their respective corners with noses in books, and knew I had found some like-minded souls.
Friday morning dawned bright and early. At least, I assume so. Dawn is, frankly, something that happens to other people. I dragged myself out of bed just in time for the last serving of breakfast, then wandered into Coventry to kill a few hours prior to registration. I’d heard a rumour there might be a dinosaur visiting. After a wander, a leisurely lunch, and the brief diversion of getting lost in the one way system, I headed back to the hotel to register for activities…and to change. Surely this was the opportunity to strut my stuff. Donning my unusual attire cost some time, duct tape, staples, and yes, more swearing. But this was my moment.
Heading back down, my somewhat occluded vision was met by an amazing array of people, some in T shirts with Jodi logos, others in a startling variety of historical costumes, and associated outfits. Summoning my courage, I headed into the throng and towards the drinks table. Tea, maybe, coffee, the horror, hot chocolate, the very thing! Not pausing to consider how I could possibly consume this beverage past the encumbrance of my all engulfing dodo head, I seized upon my prize, then turned to find a quiet corner to gather my wits. As I moved across the room, I could see ripples as the crowd surged. Could that be? Yes! Just in front of me stood Jodi herself! In a spasm of pure fandom I could not speak, could not move, could not think, as our heroine stopped and looked at me. Or, at least, at the dodo. And at that very moment, as people surged forward behind me, there was a horrifically loud bang right in my ear. Or, as you may have guessed, in my rear. One of the balloons in my outfit had burst in the crush. Not that I was quick witted enough to realise that at the time.
I jumped. The mug in my hand jumped. The hot chocolate in the mug in my hand jumped, all over Jodi, drenching her in a wave of all engulfing beverage. Now, fortunately indeed, this would more accurately be termed warm chocolate than hot. But I did not realise this. My head screaming with the implications of inflicting serious burns on our favourite author I seized a jug of iced water, and it followed the hot chocolate. I was dragged away protesting my innocence. And banned. Hated. Despised. Thank goodness what happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld.
I consider myself a fan of Jodi’s work, have indeed managed to convert a few of my friends, and as such I was understandably fascinated to discover that a fan convention was in the offing. I am, by nature (contrary to what colleagues at work have been conned into believing) an introvert, happiest, oddly enough, with my nose in a book. However, for this, I would make an exception. In amongst the practicalities of considering transport, accommodation, googling of the hotel menus, booking leave, my mind turned to appropriate attire. Here is, perhaps, the moment to make a small confession: I cannot sew. This is to the disappointment of my mother, who is very able at needlecraft, and the despair of my bosses when I was a lowly surgical house officer. Relax, I did not become a surgeon…though I have managed to stitch my glove to the umbilical stump when securing an arterial line. Twice.
So, dragging myself relentlessly back to the point, I did not have high hopes of being able to sew myself an authentic historical outfit. Perhaps I could feckle an approximation to Team Weird’s toga attempts? But no, even that was likely to be beyond my capabilities. And so I turned to the option of internet shopping: reader, I was not inspired. I swiped through pages, and pages, of poorly made inauthentically fabricated outfits. My choices were further limited by not wishing to display a stretch of bosom more fitted to a breastfeeding awareness advert. I tried thinking laterally, browsing images of dinosaurs and swans, rabbits and kangaroos, dodos and…hmmm. A tiny glimmering of a thought entered my mind: if people could make inflatable dinosaur costumes, then perhaps inflated balloons could be used to add volume to a dodo costume, perhaps crafted primarily from heavy duty paper and card. And thus, sadly, an idea was born.
The gem of a thought is not, sadly, prone to leaping effortlessly into the material world. Sourcing appropriate materials, whilst simultaneously convincing the proprietors of the local craft shop that I was not, in fact, a primary school teacher, was a bit of a challenge. But this was nothing compared to the difficulties of actually designing and constructing this monstrosity. Ironically, perhaps, the element of the process which caused me the least trepidation was the thought of creating a dodo head to cover my own. After all, I had previously successfully devised an articulated dragon head for my mother to wear during World Book Day. Yes, she was a primary school teacher, the shop owner was not far wrong. Hours of labour followed. Tracing, cutting, sticking, stapling, swearing. Lots and lots of swearing. I may actually have invented some swear words: we were far past fire trucking here, and probably beyond bloody bollocking hell. After multiple false starts, abandoned attempts, and breaks for restorative chocolate, finally I had something that was almost but not entirely unlike a dodo. A framework of stapled cardboard supported a shell of sugar paper, adorned with fake feathers, and my shoulders supported a bizarre approximation to a dodo head. It was painfully apparent that I would need to take with me a repair kit of glue, sticky tape, stapler, spare paper, cuddly toy, fondue set, crystal decanter…okay, maybe not the last one. I was not even sure that I could don and doff this dubious work of art without indulging in major alterations. But at least I hadn’t tried to add a droppings pouch to the complexity, or a light up nose. Nose? Snout? Beak? Beak! The main body pretty much folded flat, so could probably fit in a suitcase, but I was concerned that it was lacking in, well, body. Volume. This is where I returned to my idea of balloons. By inserting an uninflated balloon, or possibly two, into the protruding rump of the bird, and then inflating them in situ, I thought I could probably generate a pleasing fullness. Albeit at the cost of the ability to sit down. Did I mention that I’m mobility impaired and thus actually quite good at sitting? However, great art demands great sacrifices! So this mediocre craft at least politely enquired after the possibility of a few minor adjustments. Though it would perhaps be prudent to allow for sufficient arm movement to allow for the use of my walking stick.
Further experimentation followed, with the successive inflation of a variety of differently shaped balloons, striving to find a combination that allowed for insertion, expansion, fullness, and appropriate movement. That last sentence got away from me a little, I think. Regardless, with innovation worthy of the most reckless R&D department, I finally beheld the results of my endeavours: a now somewhat portly dodo exoskeleton surrounding my own alas portly body. Perhaps there had been a little too much consolatory chocolate? But no! That would be heresy!
The next step was packing. Fortunately, owing to my predilection for holidays (I like cruising, and indeed confess an appropriate preference for Cunard), I had a variety of baggage to choose from, much of it conveniently equipped with wheels. It has been observed that wheeled luggage may have been one of the single greatest strides forward for women’s liberation, and I would tend to agree. Now, if we could only sort out the pockets situation! Wrapping my costume carefully in extra large black plastic bin bags (unused), I cautiously cushioned it in my suitcase, padded by the surrounding assortment of conference t shirts, best pair of pyjamas and dressing gown (for the promised bedtime story reading) and nestled in the emergency repair kit. I believe the latter contained a wider range of potentially vital equipment than the average surgical theatres sterile supplies unit. Expeditions to the summit of Everest have gone ahead with less planning. The head, however, would not fit, and after much thought was shoehorned into a small backpack.
I had elected to travel down to Coventry, from the northern remoteness of the Cumbrian coast, on the Thursday, to avoid any risk of travel delays precipitating not just fear of tardiness, but even the actual catastrophic missing of events. The ongoing industrial disputes with the rail service, and the perennial disruptions to the West Coast Main Line, meant that I had reluctantly conceded that the safest and most reliable option would be to drive, risking the notorious vagaries of the M6. I generally drive relatively little, sometimes not taking the car outside Cumbria from one year to the next, which meant that there was no small degree of trepidation felt at the prospect. I prepared thoroughly, checking alternative routes – does one risk the M6 Toll or not? – and programming the hotel’s postcode into the map function of my phone. This turned out to be a mistake. It transpired, after much cursing, pressing buttons, attaching and removing wires, and even resorting to google, that if I activated the map function when not in the car it thought I was walking, and kept turning the screen off if it wasn’t touched for 20 seconds. It would seem one has to activate the satnav when the phone has figured out that you’re in the car for it to concede that you might want it to stay on whilst you’re driving. I managed to figure that out in a stop at Tebay services (great farm shop if you happen to be passing), and the course thereafter was somewhat smoother. Modern technology is such a blessing. The journey otherwise passed relatively routinely. It is, after all, routine for the M6 through the Midlands to be a circle of hell made up of lengthy road works, speed restrictions, contraflows, traffic jams, and a variety of vehicles all driven by idiots. It was a great relief to reach the Doubletree Hotel. Alive.
Dragging my belongings into the foyer, I was warmly welcomed by the staff. Eyeing me up and down, they enquired whether I might be one of those convention nutters, to which I eagerly affirmed. Maybe it was the T shirt that gave the game away. Or the dodo head sticking out of my rucksack. As they processed my booking, they suggested I might want to pop down to the bar in the evening, as if I waved a book around some kindred spirits might spot the recognition signal.
Having partially unpacked (does anyone ever bother to totally unpack in a hotel room? Why?) , and performed basic checks upon the structural integrity of the dodo, I headed downstairs in search of sustenance. Hopefully not soup. Or a toastie. Having checked out the menu months earlier, I felt confident I knew what to order. My hopes were dashed, however, when I discovered that the food offerings had changed. This completely destroyed my nascent intention of a healthy salad, and rapidly I was tucking into a much more satisfying burger, whilst perusing my kindle. Afterwards, heading into the bar, I did indeed encounter several other early arrivals, hiding in their respective corners with noses in books, and knew I had found some like-minded souls.
Friday morning dawned bright and early. At least, I assume so. Dawn is, frankly, something that happens to other people. I dragged myself out of bed just in time for the last serving of breakfast, then wandered into Coventry to kill a few hours prior to registration. I’d heard a rumour there might be a dinosaur visiting. After a wander, a leisurely lunch, and the brief diversion of getting lost in the one way system, I headed back to the hotel to register for activities…and to change. Surely this was the opportunity to strut my stuff. Donning my unusual attire cost some time, duct tape, staples, and yes, more swearing. But this was my moment.
Heading back down, my somewhat occluded vision was met by an amazing array of people, some in T shirts with Jodi logos, others in a startling variety of historical costumes, and associated outfits. Summoning my courage, I headed into the throng and towards the drinks table. Tea, maybe, coffee, the horror, hot chocolate, the very thing! Not pausing to consider how I could possibly consume this beverage past the encumbrance of my all engulfing dodo head, I seized upon my prize, then turned to find a quiet corner to gather my wits. As I moved across the room, I could see ripples as the crowd surged. Could that be? Yes! Just in front of me stood Jodi herself! In a spasm of pure fandom I could not speak, could not move, could not think, as our heroine stopped and looked at me. Or, at least, at the dodo. And at that very moment, as people surged forward behind me, there was a horrifically loud bang right in my ear. Or, as you may have guessed, in my rear. One of the balloons in my outfit had burst in the crush. Not that I was quick witted enough to realise that at the time.
I jumped. The mug in my hand jumped. The hot chocolate in the mug in my hand jumped, all over Jodi, drenching her in a wave of all engulfing beverage. Now, fortunately indeed, this would more accurately be termed warm chocolate than hot. But I did not realise this. My head screaming with the implications of inflicting serious burns on our favourite author I seized a jug of iced water, and it followed the hot chocolate. I was dragged away protesting my innocence. And banned. Hated. Despised. Thank goodness what happens at Jodiworld stays at Jodiworld.
Story 15.
Sent to Coventry
He woke up, today was the day, he would be given his first solo mission. He bounded out of bed, washed, and dressed in his pressed uniform. He glowed with excitement. He thought of his family, how they would be so proud of him, how they would crow to their friends about his loyalty and sacrifice to the Fatherland. He marched smartly to the canteen, ate carefully so as not to mark his pristine uniform, when a man walked up to his table. “The general would like to speak to you.” He nodded smartly to the man and followed him out, towards the offices of his superiors. As they reached the most imposing office, they both marched in smartly. The man introduced him, and he stood to attention. The general surveyed him and stood slowly. “Today is the day we change our tactics and hit them where it will hurt. Our target is a large manufacturing city and we want to get them where it hurts. You on the other hand have another role. In the middle of this city is a cathedral. This cathedral stands, watching them commit their crimes, their sins and it does nothing. It must be destroyed. You will be the one to annihilate it.” He nodded, puffed his chest out and took the packet of maps that the general handed to him. He marched out.
He spent the rest of his day consulting his maps with a fervour that he had never applied to his schoolwork. He watched the clock count down until he could start readying his plane. He revised and revised the route, glancing at his watch, jumping at sudden noise, or not hearing them at all. As time moved inexorably towards the zero-hour, he entered a focussed state that would carry him across the channel. He appeared to be calm and in control, on the inside he was planning and replanning his trip.
As he walked to his plane, he peeked into the packet and saw the name of the city. He smiled a proud smile. He was given this special mission. He did not know that he was not the only one.
He completed his pre-flight checks, conferred with the crew on the ground, attached himself into the plane and waited for the off. The checks had seemed to take hours, so he was eager to leave. His anticipation had been building all day, filling him until he had overflowed. His plane was on the older side of the fleet, but it would do the job it had been asked to do, it would make him a hero.
The chocks came away. He was off.
The plane’s engines whirred noisily through the night as anticipation of an empiric victory built. The blitzkrieg had taken it out of both sides, one tired of watching its pilots die in fiery spirals and the other tired of watching its civilians killed and maimed by falling explosions. This pilot, however, was sure. Surer of anything he had been in his life, this would be the day that it was over. His bombs would destroy the most important part, of one of the important cities. He would be a hero, remembered forever by his superiors, his country, his world.
He flew over the roiling, dark sea, the inky night falling as a blanket on a bed. He followed the map, squinting against the dark. He found land. The sparkling, white land, famous from songs and tales of other successful invaders. The blades of the propellers made a relentless noise, a relentless movement, a relentless trajectory. He kept going, not worrying about the time, or the guns he knew were on the ground. He had a mission. He would be successful.
The evening slid into night, and became blacker still, it did not feel like it was going to end. He could hear gunfire now, large explosions far below, projectiles whizzing past, but none could hit him. He had his mission. The flashes of light from below made it harder for him to read his map. The light danced, the spots in front of his eyes swirled this way, then that way. He thought he was on course. The flashing stopped for the moment, and he was able to get his bearings, but as the night drew in again, he realised his mistake. He was supposed to be going north, but his compass pointed obstinately west. He began to turn. The engines protested, turning had never been something they liked doing. If they could have flown to the target and then reversed back, they would have done! The compass faced north again. The wind blew, the rain splattered against the windows, the chill was starting to get to his bones, but he kept flying in that straight line. Eyes forward, vision tunnelled towards his goal, his mission, his symphony of fire. That was what he was carrying, several tons of destructive fire. Fire with the power to level everything that it touched, everyone that it touched. That did not matter to him in that moment. All he knew was that he had to get to the city, release his fire and leave as a dragon to a shattered village. He had wanted to be a dragon when he was a small boy, flying over picturesque countryside, breathing heavy fire, and hoarding sparkling gold. He was a dragon now.
He peered at the map again as the rolling fields and hills passed below him unnoticed and unburned, they were not his target. He was going the right way, he had enough fuel, he would be a hero. He did not think of the people below. They were enemies, conspiring to humiliate his homeland again. He would not allow that to happen. He had memories, half-remembered glimpses of childhood, they had taken their money, and the whole country suffered. “We couldn’t afford bread,” he muttered to himself, “they had parties.”
With renewed vigour, he pressed the machine onwards causing the pitch of the engines to rise and whine. Despite his urge to fulfil his purpose, he did not want to fall out of the sky. He continued this journey slower now, was longer than usual, he was going further.
As the skyline came into view, he could see the tall spire, towering above the city. It was a beacon, a tower inviting him towards it. His vision narrowed further, the adrenaline pumped faster, his trigger finger itched. The city grew larger.
The cathedral came into view, his particular target, destroy the monument, destroy their morale, break their heart. It loomed large in the city, an ever-present reminder of their obligations, their bloody history and complacency. His focus narrowed and
widened in quick succession as he focussed on the monument and on the elements of his plan to be successful.
He checked the windspeed and direction. He moved into position. This was his moment, his opportunity to be written into the history books. His name would live on forever. He swallowed, the enormity of his actions hitting him squarely in the face,
and for one golden moment he imagined the jubilation and congratulations that he would receive on his return. Then his focus regained its former glory, and he squeezed the trigger.
A thump, a whistle, a jolt, fire.
He began to turn, the engines protesting, the orange light of fire flaring beneath him, screams rending the air as sirens and engines began to wail. Explosions of light and fire widened beneath him. The guns had started again, but he was not worried, they
had not got him before, they would not get him now. He was in the right. He was the hero.
The whistling was closer this time, but he kept going. He did not need the flashy manoeuvres, he had only ever seen his fellow pilots die when they did those turns and spirals, dodging just in time, or not quite. A straight line was all that was necessary. The whistling had changed, it was below him, directly below. Alarm flooded his body. His hands began to shake, then his arms, feet, legs, body, teeth. In a split second, all his control had vanished from his limbs. His whole body shook with fear. He remembered his parents and sisters at home, proud of his achievements, getting on with their lives. He thinks about the telegram they will get. He thinks about
his father crying. His father never cried, not through those harsh winters, that horrible war, the declaration of another, but he was sure his father would cry at this. In an instant, he knew with a sudden clarity that he should have stayed at home, feigned
sickness, this was not the heroic mission it was supposed to be. He was cannon fodder, as they all were, fighting a war for a man who did not care about him, an ideology, that did not care about him. Then he only heard the buzzing of instruments and the wrench of metal as the machine exploded.
From the outside, it looked like any other German plane spiralling in fire towards the blazing graveyard below. It was a German plane, that much was true -but this - this was the plane that destroyed the city’s symbol, the place they gathered, this was the
plane that had destroyed it. This was the plane that would make the King weep. This was the plane that spurred further tragedies on both sides, inspired them both to greater violence.
As the man in the plane burned and fell, he felt the pain, felt the fall, but did not feel regret. The clarity had left him, only his orders remained. He would be known by everyone, his name written in history.
He spent the rest of his day consulting his maps with a fervour that he had never applied to his schoolwork. He watched the clock count down until he could start readying his plane. He revised and revised the route, glancing at his watch, jumping at sudden noise, or not hearing them at all. As time moved inexorably towards the zero-hour, he entered a focussed state that would carry him across the channel. He appeared to be calm and in control, on the inside he was planning and replanning his trip.
As he walked to his plane, he peeked into the packet and saw the name of the city. He smiled a proud smile. He was given this special mission. He did not know that he was not the only one.
He completed his pre-flight checks, conferred with the crew on the ground, attached himself into the plane and waited for the off. The checks had seemed to take hours, so he was eager to leave. His anticipation had been building all day, filling him until he had overflowed. His plane was on the older side of the fleet, but it would do the job it had been asked to do, it would make him a hero.
The chocks came away. He was off.
The plane’s engines whirred noisily through the night as anticipation of an empiric victory built. The blitzkrieg had taken it out of both sides, one tired of watching its pilots die in fiery spirals and the other tired of watching its civilians killed and maimed by falling explosions. This pilot, however, was sure. Surer of anything he had been in his life, this would be the day that it was over. His bombs would destroy the most important part, of one of the important cities. He would be a hero, remembered forever by his superiors, his country, his world.
He flew over the roiling, dark sea, the inky night falling as a blanket on a bed. He followed the map, squinting against the dark. He found land. The sparkling, white land, famous from songs and tales of other successful invaders. The blades of the propellers made a relentless noise, a relentless movement, a relentless trajectory. He kept going, not worrying about the time, or the guns he knew were on the ground. He had a mission. He would be successful.
The evening slid into night, and became blacker still, it did not feel like it was going to end. He could hear gunfire now, large explosions far below, projectiles whizzing past, but none could hit him. He had his mission. The flashes of light from below made it harder for him to read his map. The light danced, the spots in front of his eyes swirled this way, then that way. He thought he was on course. The flashing stopped for the moment, and he was able to get his bearings, but as the night drew in again, he realised his mistake. He was supposed to be going north, but his compass pointed obstinately west. He began to turn. The engines protested, turning had never been something they liked doing. If they could have flown to the target and then reversed back, they would have done! The compass faced north again. The wind blew, the rain splattered against the windows, the chill was starting to get to his bones, but he kept flying in that straight line. Eyes forward, vision tunnelled towards his goal, his mission, his symphony of fire. That was what he was carrying, several tons of destructive fire. Fire with the power to level everything that it touched, everyone that it touched. That did not matter to him in that moment. All he knew was that he had to get to the city, release his fire and leave as a dragon to a shattered village. He had wanted to be a dragon when he was a small boy, flying over picturesque countryside, breathing heavy fire, and hoarding sparkling gold. He was a dragon now.
He peered at the map again as the rolling fields and hills passed below him unnoticed and unburned, they were not his target. He was going the right way, he had enough fuel, he would be a hero. He did not think of the people below. They were enemies, conspiring to humiliate his homeland again. He would not allow that to happen. He had memories, half-remembered glimpses of childhood, they had taken their money, and the whole country suffered. “We couldn’t afford bread,” he muttered to himself, “they had parties.”
With renewed vigour, he pressed the machine onwards causing the pitch of the engines to rise and whine. Despite his urge to fulfil his purpose, he did not want to fall out of the sky. He continued this journey slower now, was longer than usual, he was going further.
As the skyline came into view, he could see the tall spire, towering above the city. It was a beacon, a tower inviting him towards it. His vision narrowed further, the adrenaline pumped faster, his trigger finger itched. The city grew larger.
The cathedral came into view, his particular target, destroy the monument, destroy their morale, break their heart. It loomed large in the city, an ever-present reminder of their obligations, their bloody history and complacency. His focus narrowed and
widened in quick succession as he focussed on the monument and on the elements of his plan to be successful.
He checked the windspeed and direction. He moved into position. This was his moment, his opportunity to be written into the history books. His name would live on forever. He swallowed, the enormity of his actions hitting him squarely in the face,
and for one golden moment he imagined the jubilation and congratulations that he would receive on his return. Then his focus regained its former glory, and he squeezed the trigger.
A thump, a whistle, a jolt, fire.
He began to turn, the engines protesting, the orange light of fire flaring beneath him, screams rending the air as sirens and engines began to wail. Explosions of light and fire widened beneath him. The guns had started again, but he was not worried, they
had not got him before, they would not get him now. He was in the right. He was the hero.
The whistling was closer this time, but he kept going. He did not need the flashy manoeuvres, he had only ever seen his fellow pilots die when they did those turns and spirals, dodging just in time, or not quite. A straight line was all that was necessary. The whistling had changed, it was below him, directly below. Alarm flooded his body. His hands began to shake, then his arms, feet, legs, body, teeth. In a split second, all his control had vanished from his limbs. His whole body shook with fear. He remembered his parents and sisters at home, proud of his achievements, getting on with their lives. He thinks about the telegram they will get. He thinks about
his father crying. His father never cried, not through those harsh winters, that horrible war, the declaration of another, but he was sure his father would cry at this. In an instant, he knew with a sudden clarity that he should have stayed at home, feigned
sickness, this was not the heroic mission it was supposed to be. He was cannon fodder, as they all were, fighting a war for a man who did not care about him, an ideology, that did not care about him. Then he only heard the buzzing of instruments and the wrench of metal as the machine exploded.
From the outside, it looked like any other German plane spiralling in fire towards the blazing graveyard below. It was a German plane, that much was true -but this - this was the plane that destroyed the city’s symbol, the place they gathered, this was the
plane that had destroyed it. This was the plane that would make the King weep. This was the plane that spurred further tragedies on both sides, inspired them both to greater violence.
As the man in the plane burned and fell, he felt the pain, felt the fall, but did not feel regret. The clarity had left him, only his orders remained. He would be known by everyone, his name written in history.
Story 16
Sent To Coventry
Annie looked up at the impressive front of Miffcass Manor. Grey stone turrets glistened in the morning sun, giving the impression of a fairy tale castle from another time. Somebody seemed to be waving at her from one of the windows on high. How lovely, she waved back excitedly. “Today was going to be a good day” she thought happily as she looked down at the letter on the passenger seat, beside her.
She just couldn’t believe it, she never won anything and also had no memory of even entering this competition. However, a free holiday was a free holiday and it wasn’t if she had anything better to do.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” her Dad used to say, so maybe they would try and sell her a timeshare or something. Annoying, but she could put up with a bit of hard sell for a free holiday.
The prize was only for one person, which was unusual, but really she had no one to go with anymore. Her best friend Sue, was suffering from long COVID as was her ex boyfriend Bill. Sadly, both her Mum and Dad had also died last year from COVID. So many family, friends, work colleagues and acquaintances had struggled with COVID over the last 4 years, it was unbelievable. Most were fine now, but some were still struggling with Long COVID and others, like her parents were no longer here. She was one of the lucky ones, never had any symptoms and had worked throughout the various lockdowns in her supermarket job. Also, busied herself with shopping for others who couldn’t or wouldn’t go out and enjoyed many a sneaky cup of tea with them after she had delivered their shopping. She didn’t exactly break lock down rules, just bent them a bit to suit herself.
“Right, no point in dwelling on the past, let’s look forward to the future”. She sighed and grabbed her weekend bag and her winning ticket and got out of the car. Looking around, she was surprised to see that there were no other cars around, maybe parking was at the back? Oh, well, they would tell her inside. She paused at the massive entrance as she realised she had forgotten her mask again. Never mind, if they wanted her to wear a bloody stupid mask, they could provide it for her!! She could not keep up with the ever changing rules and regulations over the last few years. Last week they had even brought in testing again in work, a blood test for a change. Massive big needle, no one had mentioned her results, so she assumed she was fine.
The entrance hall was beautiful, wood-paneled and marble floored. A large desk with an enormous Perspex screen stood grandly to one side. A distinguished serious faced older man stood behind it. She approached, waving her winning ticket.
“Congratulations Madam, one of our lucky winners, so pleased to meet you. Please help yourself to one of our complimentary drinks, whilst I prepare your paperwork.”
Annie sipped from the elegant cocktail glass. A delicious warm feeling crept down her body. How wonderful, she was really going to enjoy this break.
“Could we please have your car keys to park your car and could you just sign these documents Madam” Annie, handed over her keys and quickly glanced at the form. Usual, boring stuff, address, date of birth and something about accepting the prize. She signed quickly and then started to feel a bit dizzy. “Chair, Madam” a woman in a full-face mask had suddenly appeared behind her with a wheelchair. Annie collapsed into it in bewilderment, what was happening to her?
“Get her into the lift quickly” the man behind the desk ordered. “Our 15.15 appointment is just driving in ten minutes early.”
Annie’s head slumped back into the wheelchair as she was pushed into a large lift and then everything went blank.
Four hours later, Annie’s eyes opened slowly. “Where was she, what was happening?” She looked around the spacious, clean, but basic room. “Less top-class hotel, more bloody hospital room” she thought crossly. At least the bed was comfortable though. She got up slowly and moved towards the door. What was that strange hatch in the bottom and why couldn’t she get the door open? She pulled and pulled and then moved to the large window. Maybe, she could open it and shout down for help. A car drew up and a young man got out; the window wouldn’t budge, so she tried banging on the window. The man looked up, smiled and waved and walked into the hotel.
“Oh, shit” thought Annie, “what on earth is happening?” She sank into a chair and suddenly the TV clicked on. A white coated man appeared on screen. “Welcome to Miffcass Manor; Medical Isolation Facility for COVID Acute Super Spreaders. You will be retained at Government discretion for the foreseeable future.” Annie screeched in horror, this couldn’t be true, but in her heart she knew it was.
She just couldn’t believe it, she never won anything and also had no memory of even entering this competition. However, a free holiday was a free holiday and it wasn’t if she had anything better to do.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” her Dad used to say, so maybe they would try and sell her a timeshare or something. Annoying, but she could put up with a bit of hard sell for a free holiday.
The prize was only for one person, which was unusual, but really she had no one to go with anymore. Her best friend Sue, was suffering from long COVID as was her ex boyfriend Bill. Sadly, both her Mum and Dad had also died last year from COVID. So many family, friends, work colleagues and acquaintances had struggled with COVID over the last 4 years, it was unbelievable. Most were fine now, but some were still struggling with Long COVID and others, like her parents were no longer here. She was one of the lucky ones, never had any symptoms and had worked throughout the various lockdowns in her supermarket job. Also, busied herself with shopping for others who couldn’t or wouldn’t go out and enjoyed many a sneaky cup of tea with them after she had delivered their shopping. She didn’t exactly break lock down rules, just bent them a bit to suit herself.
“Right, no point in dwelling on the past, let’s look forward to the future”. She sighed and grabbed her weekend bag and her winning ticket and got out of the car. Looking around, she was surprised to see that there were no other cars around, maybe parking was at the back? Oh, well, they would tell her inside. She paused at the massive entrance as she realised she had forgotten her mask again. Never mind, if they wanted her to wear a bloody stupid mask, they could provide it for her!! She could not keep up with the ever changing rules and regulations over the last few years. Last week they had even brought in testing again in work, a blood test for a change. Massive big needle, no one had mentioned her results, so she assumed she was fine.
The entrance hall was beautiful, wood-paneled and marble floored. A large desk with an enormous Perspex screen stood grandly to one side. A distinguished serious faced older man stood behind it. She approached, waving her winning ticket.
“Congratulations Madam, one of our lucky winners, so pleased to meet you. Please help yourself to one of our complimentary drinks, whilst I prepare your paperwork.”
Annie sipped from the elegant cocktail glass. A delicious warm feeling crept down her body. How wonderful, she was really going to enjoy this break.
“Could we please have your car keys to park your car and could you just sign these documents Madam” Annie, handed over her keys and quickly glanced at the form. Usual, boring stuff, address, date of birth and something about accepting the prize. She signed quickly and then started to feel a bit dizzy. “Chair, Madam” a woman in a full-face mask had suddenly appeared behind her with a wheelchair. Annie collapsed into it in bewilderment, what was happening to her?
“Get her into the lift quickly” the man behind the desk ordered. “Our 15.15 appointment is just driving in ten minutes early.”
Annie’s head slumped back into the wheelchair as she was pushed into a large lift and then everything went blank.
Four hours later, Annie’s eyes opened slowly. “Where was she, what was happening?” She looked around the spacious, clean, but basic room. “Less top-class hotel, more bloody hospital room” she thought crossly. At least the bed was comfortable though. She got up slowly and moved towards the door. What was that strange hatch in the bottom and why couldn’t she get the door open? She pulled and pulled and then moved to the large window. Maybe, she could open it and shout down for help. A car drew up and a young man got out; the window wouldn’t budge, so she tried banging on the window. The man looked up, smiled and waved and walked into the hotel.
“Oh, shit” thought Annie, “what on earth is happening?” She sank into a chair and suddenly the TV clicked on. A white coated man appeared on screen. “Welcome to Miffcass Manor; Medical Isolation Facility for COVID Acute Super Spreaders. You will be retained at Government discretion for the foreseeable future.” Annie screeched in horror, this couldn’t be true, but in her heart she knew it was.
Story 17.
Sent to Coventry
As the sun rose over the horizon, lighting up the panoramic view of the red sand covered mountains, Becca paused in her trek, drew a deep breath and looked in all directions seeking for any sign of life. As before, she could see nothing except for the deserted landscape and her growing shadow as the sun crept higher over the mountains illuminating the desert landscape.
Before starting out again, she took out a battered notebook from her bag and made a notation – another night had passed. Becca looked for somewhere to shelter for the day, not just to keep out of the sun, but to avoid any raiders who would happily kill her for the equipment that she was carrying – and even if they left her alive, without the water reclamation unit, she’d be dead anyway.
Spotting what looked like a cave – or at least a hollow – further on, she quickly returned the notebook to her bag and hurried on to the shelter and hopefully another day of safety. She soon reached the opening and crept slowly inside – it wouldn’t be the first time she had discovered someone or something else sheltering from the sun. Her initial scrutiny determined that the cave was deserted and went back far enough to protect her from both the sun and the heat. She quickly set up her equipment to start the process of extracting any water from the air and gathered the moss and fungus to add to her rations. She ate and drank a small amount from her supplies and settled down to sleep. It would be hours before the new water and food would be available and even longer before the sun started to set so that she could continue her journey.
Becca awoke when it was still light outside, though at least 8 hours had passed based on the shadows showing at the cave entrance. She struggled to her feet, checked her machinery and was happy to see that the water pouch was nearly full. Her food processor had turned the mishmash of materials she had collected the previous day (mostly grasses, with some fungi, lichen and a few slower bugs) into the dried ration bars which were her sole source of nourishment. She opened her notebook and as on every previous day, calculated how far she had walked in her quest. Fifty-three days since she had started out, and it still felt that she was no closer to her destination.
Checking her compass – the last thing she wanted to do was to start retracing her steps or circling around – she completed a check on the cave to make sure she had left nothing of use behind and headed back out on to the darkening landscape, ready to start another night of searching.
Ten hours later the sun rose again over the horizon, just as it had done for the previous fifty-three days. She noted it in her notebook and took stock of her surroundings and quickly dropped to the ground. There was definitely something in the distance, it looked like a tower, shimmering in the morning light at least another two nights of walking away. This close to her destination, she wondered if it would be sensible to carry on through the day. But her body was tired and walking in the daylight would be too dangerous. Looking around she spotted another likely looking rest place for the day – not as “comfortable” as the previous nights’ cave, but it provided sufficient shade and after nearly eight weeks she was used to sleeping in full daylight. She dug a small pit to provide additional camouflage and started on her normal morning routine of setting up her equipment, eating and drinking a small amount before drifting off.
She woke earlier than usual, disturbed by a distant thrumming. Cautiously she raised the top of the sheet covering the indentation she had dug out and peered out. Nothing was in view except for the tower in the distance – but clearly closer than she had thought that morning. In fact, it looked like she might just about make by the following morning. She thought, and swivelled around on herself, trying to look out in all directions to locate the source of the noise, while ensuring that she remained unseen. Still nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and the noise was getting fainter as if moving further away from her.
Realising that there was no point in waiting any more, she crept out of the shelter and quickly packed up her equipment – pausing only to transfer the water reclaimed that day to her pouch and to eat another ration bar. Standing up she glance at the sun and decided that she had only slept for five hours and that there were still at least three more hours of daylight before the sun started to set. But by now the closeness of her goal and the lack of any movement on the plain below, spurred her on and she began to climb down from the high ridges for what she hoped would be the final night of this stage of her journey. Despite her apparent rush, she was being extremely careful, checking every foot and hand hold before transferring her weight while also moving slowly so as not to draw any attention from watchers. She also kept a close eye on her surroundings to check if she could locate the source of the still faint thrumming.
Despite of her care, she managed a very quick descent to the valley floor and quickly moved onwards, desperate to reach the tower before the sun rose again. As soon as she was out from the shadow of the mountain, she started to panic. Without the safety of the nooks, caves, and shelter of the mountain she felt exposed and vulnerable. What was out there watching her right now? Even if she did reach the tower would she find what she sought there.
It had been so long since she had left her home, carrying with her the seeds of her peoples’ survival and her own one-way ticket to safety.
As the moon reached its zenith, the constant background thrumming suddenly stopped. She immediately halted and gingerly lowered herself to the ground to make as small a target as possible – just in case the sudden silence pre-empted a flurry of violence. Just off to her left she felt rather than saw a movement. Turning slowly, and avoiding any sudden motions, she tried to make out the shadowy figure in the darkness. Dreading the idea of running in to raiders this close to her goal, she started to crawl onwards, slowly moving further and further away from the danger. The tower was still visible in the distance and individual aspects of it
were now becoming clearer – even in the moonlight.
After 5 more minutes of the silence you only find in the deep deserts, she stood and strode purposefully onward. The tower loomed taller than ever and as she got closer she began to identify some movement around the base. By now she was only a mile or so away and the ever-pervasive thoughts of danger began to break through the barrier of hope erected by the sight of her destination. How had the raiders managed to get so close to the tower last night?
What had happened to the defences that would have been put in place to stop raiders? Or had the tower already fallen to them?
In the months leading up to the event, or at least the months in which the public were made aware of the upcoming impending catastrophe, choices were made that resulted in the construction of 8,000 towers around the globe. These would save as many of the 8,000,000,000 inhabitants the planet as possible. But unsurprisingly as soon as the event occurred, despite the heavily depleted population, the towers – whose location could not be kept secret – came under attack. They were seen as hope, the only hope for a doomed people.
Becca was doubly luck in that she had not only survived the event but had been chosen to make the trip to safety. She had no family or friends to leave behind and started out on her journey with no regrets or second thoughts. The landscape over which she could have travelled in less than a day previously – was completely changed and bore no resemblance to the country in which she had lived her entire life albeit a life of only 21 years.
Even after the event, and before Becca started her journey, there were still some radio signals broadcasting on open channels reporting some towers being either destroyed or taken. By the time Becca had left her home at least 200 of them were no longer viable options, but for Becca there was ever only one destination for her.
She decided that there was no point in delaying the inevitable, if raiders had taken control of the tower then there was no safety for her anywhere and if they hadn’t then the sooner she reached its safety the better. She started to jog the final mile coming closer and closer and was quickly spotted by the people surrounding the base of the tower. A flurry of commotion followed by the sound of a speeder coming towards her and within minutes she was stopped and facing a young man pointing a gun at her and demanding answers.
A few hours later and Becca was in heaven. She had showered and eaten something that was not recycled bugs and moss and was now sitting in an office being interviewed by a group of elderly men, and finally she had a chance to tell her story. “Hi, my name is Becca”, she started, “I started out fifty-three days ago, shortly after the event, and have been searching for this place. I have everything you said I needed, and I fulfil the requirements. I know what comes next and I am ready”.
After two more hours of cross checking her information – and no doubt scanning the genetic material she was carrying in her bag, they were happy that she was who she claimed to be. “You’re lucky” one of the old men told her, “We have nearly a full complement and had just decided not to risk waiting any longer. As you surmised, there are raiders everywhere, though most are taken care of by the automated systems we have in place. Anyway launch takes place tomorrow, you will have just enough time to get kitted out and meet some of the others”.
Becca entered the large hall, and was greeted by the sight of nearly two hundred other young people all dressed in a variety of different coloured jumpsuits – orange, blue, black and green.
She started forward just as someone stood up on a stage and started speaking. “Welcome everyone. Tomorrow at dawn you will all board the ship and enter cryogenic stasis for the duration of the journey. You have made it here carrying the DNA of your communities so that when the ship reaches your destination, they will be the seeds of the first generation of humanity born on a new planet. Earth since the Event is no more and all of our resources have gone in to ensuring the survival of the species. You will be the carers and teachers of the next generation and the hopes of humanity rests upon your shoulders.”
As the sun rose the next day, Becca though of her lifesaving decision to study to be a teacher, and how she had been chosen to make this journey to the midlands of England. As the United Earth Vessel Coventry (named for the closest urban centre) took off, Becca was one again grateful that her community had chosen to send her to Coventry.
Before starting out again, she took out a battered notebook from her bag and made a notation – another night had passed. Becca looked for somewhere to shelter for the day, not just to keep out of the sun, but to avoid any raiders who would happily kill her for the equipment that she was carrying – and even if they left her alive, without the water reclamation unit, she’d be dead anyway.
Spotting what looked like a cave – or at least a hollow – further on, she quickly returned the notebook to her bag and hurried on to the shelter and hopefully another day of safety. She soon reached the opening and crept slowly inside – it wouldn’t be the first time she had discovered someone or something else sheltering from the sun. Her initial scrutiny determined that the cave was deserted and went back far enough to protect her from both the sun and the heat. She quickly set up her equipment to start the process of extracting any water from the air and gathered the moss and fungus to add to her rations. She ate and drank a small amount from her supplies and settled down to sleep. It would be hours before the new water and food would be available and even longer before the sun started to set so that she could continue her journey.
Becca awoke when it was still light outside, though at least 8 hours had passed based on the shadows showing at the cave entrance. She struggled to her feet, checked her machinery and was happy to see that the water pouch was nearly full. Her food processor had turned the mishmash of materials she had collected the previous day (mostly grasses, with some fungi, lichen and a few slower bugs) into the dried ration bars which were her sole source of nourishment. She opened her notebook and as on every previous day, calculated how far she had walked in her quest. Fifty-three days since she had started out, and it still felt that she was no closer to her destination.
Checking her compass – the last thing she wanted to do was to start retracing her steps or circling around – she completed a check on the cave to make sure she had left nothing of use behind and headed back out on to the darkening landscape, ready to start another night of searching.
Ten hours later the sun rose again over the horizon, just as it had done for the previous fifty-three days. She noted it in her notebook and took stock of her surroundings and quickly dropped to the ground. There was definitely something in the distance, it looked like a tower, shimmering in the morning light at least another two nights of walking away. This close to her destination, she wondered if it would be sensible to carry on through the day. But her body was tired and walking in the daylight would be too dangerous. Looking around she spotted another likely looking rest place for the day – not as “comfortable” as the previous nights’ cave, but it provided sufficient shade and after nearly eight weeks she was used to sleeping in full daylight. She dug a small pit to provide additional camouflage and started on her normal morning routine of setting up her equipment, eating and drinking a small amount before drifting off.
She woke earlier than usual, disturbed by a distant thrumming. Cautiously she raised the top of the sheet covering the indentation she had dug out and peered out. Nothing was in view except for the tower in the distance – but clearly closer than she had thought that morning. In fact, it looked like she might just about make by the following morning. She thought, and swivelled around on herself, trying to look out in all directions to locate the source of the noise, while ensuring that she remained unseen. Still nothing appeared out of the ordinary, and the noise was getting fainter as if moving further away from her.
Realising that there was no point in waiting any more, she crept out of the shelter and quickly packed up her equipment – pausing only to transfer the water reclaimed that day to her pouch and to eat another ration bar. Standing up she glance at the sun and decided that she had only slept for five hours and that there were still at least three more hours of daylight before the sun started to set. But by now the closeness of her goal and the lack of any movement on the plain below, spurred her on and she began to climb down from the high ridges for what she hoped would be the final night of this stage of her journey. Despite her apparent rush, she was being extremely careful, checking every foot and hand hold before transferring her weight while also moving slowly so as not to draw any attention from watchers. She also kept a close eye on her surroundings to check if she could locate the source of the still faint thrumming.
Despite of her care, she managed a very quick descent to the valley floor and quickly moved onwards, desperate to reach the tower before the sun rose again. As soon as she was out from the shadow of the mountain, she started to panic. Without the safety of the nooks, caves, and shelter of the mountain she felt exposed and vulnerable. What was out there watching her right now? Even if she did reach the tower would she find what she sought there.
It had been so long since she had left her home, carrying with her the seeds of her peoples’ survival and her own one-way ticket to safety.
As the moon reached its zenith, the constant background thrumming suddenly stopped. She immediately halted and gingerly lowered herself to the ground to make as small a target as possible – just in case the sudden silence pre-empted a flurry of violence. Just off to her left she felt rather than saw a movement. Turning slowly, and avoiding any sudden motions, she tried to make out the shadowy figure in the darkness. Dreading the idea of running in to raiders this close to her goal, she started to crawl onwards, slowly moving further and further away from the danger. The tower was still visible in the distance and individual aspects of it
were now becoming clearer – even in the moonlight.
After 5 more minutes of the silence you only find in the deep deserts, she stood and strode purposefully onward. The tower loomed taller than ever and as she got closer she began to identify some movement around the base. By now she was only a mile or so away and the ever-pervasive thoughts of danger began to break through the barrier of hope erected by the sight of her destination. How had the raiders managed to get so close to the tower last night?
What had happened to the defences that would have been put in place to stop raiders? Or had the tower already fallen to them?
In the months leading up to the event, or at least the months in which the public were made aware of the upcoming impending catastrophe, choices were made that resulted in the construction of 8,000 towers around the globe. These would save as many of the 8,000,000,000 inhabitants the planet as possible. But unsurprisingly as soon as the event occurred, despite the heavily depleted population, the towers – whose location could not be kept secret – came under attack. They were seen as hope, the only hope for a doomed people.
Becca was doubly luck in that she had not only survived the event but had been chosen to make the trip to safety. She had no family or friends to leave behind and started out on her journey with no regrets or second thoughts. The landscape over which she could have travelled in less than a day previously – was completely changed and bore no resemblance to the country in which she had lived her entire life albeit a life of only 21 years.
Even after the event, and before Becca started her journey, there were still some radio signals broadcasting on open channels reporting some towers being either destroyed or taken. By the time Becca had left her home at least 200 of them were no longer viable options, but for Becca there was ever only one destination for her.
She decided that there was no point in delaying the inevitable, if raiders had taken control of the tower then there was no safety for her anywhere and if they hadn’t then the sooner she reached its safety the better. She started to jog the final mile coming closer and closer and was quickly spotted by the people surrounding the base of the tower. A flurry of commotion followed by the sound of a speeder coming towards her and within minutes she was stopped and facing a young man pointing a gun at her and demanding answers.
A few hours later and Becca was in heaven. She had showered and eaten something that was not recycled bugs and moss and was now sitting in an office being interviewed by a group of elderly men, and finally she had a chance to tell her story. “Hi, my name is Becca”, she started, “I started out fifty-three days ago, shortly after the event, and have been searching for this place. I have everything you said I needed, and I fulfil the requirements. I know what comes next and I am ready”.
After two more hours of cross checking her information – and no doubt scanning the genetic material she was carrying in her bag, they were happy that she was who she claimed to be. “You’re lucky” one of the old men told her, “We have nearly a full complement and had just decided not to risk waiting any longer. As you surmised, there are raiders everywhere, though most are taken care of by the automated systems we have in place. Anyway launch takes place tomorrow, you will have just enough time to get kitted out and meet some of the others”.
Becca entered the large hall, and was greeted by the sight of nearly two hundred other young people all dressed in a variety of different coloured jumpsuits – orange, blue, black and green.
She started forward just as someone stood up on a stage and started speaking. “Welcome everyone. Tomorrow at dawn you will all board the ship and enter cryogenic stasis for the duration of the journey. You have made it here carrying the DNA of your communities so that when the ship reaches your destination, they will be the seeds of the first generation of humanity born on a new planet. Earth since the Event is no more and all of our resources have gone in to ensuring the survival of the species. You will be the carers and teachers of the next generation and the hopes of humanity rests upon your shoulders.”
As the sun rose the next day, Becca though of her lifesaving decision to study to be a teacher, and how she had been chosen to make this journey to the midlands of England. As the United Earth Vessel Coventry (named for the closest urban centre) took off, Becca was one again grateful that her community had chosen to send her to Coventry.
Story 18:
Sent to Coventry
“You’re being sent to Coventry.” Grandad said. I looked up at him from my desk.
“What’s in Coventry?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he replied. “It’s an immediate requisition – you leave in the morning. Gather what you think you need and pick up your train ticket from your grandmother’s office.”
I knew better than to ask for further details. My desk was small enough to require very little packing –despite being an adult, I didn’t have enough experience to be classed as anything other than a Very Junior, and so I had not yet been granted the privilege of a proper office.
If I was perfectly honest with myself, being an exorcist wasn’t really all it had cracked up to be. My family had been in the business for generations, but all that historical ghost banishing had left very little work for us to do now. Once the spirits were sent out of our world and back to the Second Realm, whether through co-operation or force, they were pretty much gone for good. Only ghosts with a real axe to grind made the effort to cross back over, and those were way out of my league.
I packed my bag with my kit – dried sage, white candles with matches and an electric lighter (not making that mistake again), decent quality salt, and a lunch bag with biscuits and crisps. Those were for me, not the ghosts – I wasn’t paying railway station prices for snacks.
******
Night fell. I watched from my hotel room’s grimy window as the city slowly emptied, daytime visitors beginning to make way for night-time denizens. When a handful of rowdy young men tumbled out of the pub over the road, I decided it was time to start work.
Exorcising a ghost is always a tricky procedure, even when you’re Very Junior and stuck with the basic ones. There are words to recite, and each ritual has to be completed in exactly the right order. Lighting the candles before the sage will not only make the ghost laugh at you but will get you a bollocking from Grandad. Don’t ask me how I know. Ideally, the ritual would be completed at midnight under a full moon, but in practice, as long as it’s dark and free from onlookers, you can usually get away with it. Full moons have a higher chance of success, but the business isn’t doing so well these days and we can’t always afford to wait for the lunar cycle to change.
So it was that I schlepped across the town to Coventry Cathedral, home to a haunting serious enough to send an exorcist straight away, but not so bad that it required a Senior to handle. I wondered what kind of night I would have in store, and how quickly I could pick up a kebab and head back to the hotel.
I stepped over the threshold and inspected my surroundings. There wasn’t much left of the original building, the roof having been completely destroyed, but the walls were mostly intact, and the ground seemed clear. Thank goodness for that – nothing worse than trying to banish a ghost in an old, ruined building with rubble strewn all over the place. Going arse over tit while reciting an incantation really kills any respect the spectre might have for you. Again, don’t ask me how I know.
I placed my backpack down carefully and rummaged for my equipment, laying each piece out in front of me in the order it would be used. Salt first, to draw a circle around myself and then later to sprinkle throughout the building. Four white candles, one at each cardinal direction point, to guide the ghosts through to the Second Realm. A decent quality compass, to figure out where the cardinal direction points actually were. Finally, sage, to burn if my attempt to persuade the ghosts to leave of their own free will didn’t work.
“I call upon the power vested unto me, as a practitioner of apotropaic magics, to cleanse this site of the malignant spirits residing therein. Spirits, hear my call, and return to the Realm which you came from.”
“From which you came,” said a male voice to my right.
“I’m sorry?” I asked. I’d never been interrupted by a ghost before, and wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed.
“Apology accepted. One ought never to end a sentence with a preposition, but you seem young and you will be forgiven.”
The ghost had begun to materialise just outside of the salt circle, and was looking at me expectantly. I had a sudden flashback to the look on Grandma’s face when she was first teaching me the incantation and I had to keep stopping to remember the words. That bland encouragement was patronising fifteen years ago, but as an adult – and on the face of a ghost, no less – it was downright infuriating.
“Fine. I call upon the power vested unto me, as a practitioner of apotropaic magics, to cleanse this site of the malignant spirits residing therein. Spirits, hear my call, and return to the Realm which – the Realm from which you came.”
“Better,” the voice said, “but I would have preferred ‘from whence you came’. Same meaning but it just sounds a bit grander.”
I sighed and lowered my hands. I had multiple ghosts surrounding the circle now, men and women, some as old as my grandparents and some younger than me. One looked like they were only a teenager. I’d never been asked to banish more than two or three spirits at a time, and worry started to creep in.
“Look,” I said, “the owners of the building have hired my company to exorcise you. Please can you just let me get on with it? I’ve never done so many before.”
“No, I think it was your uncle last time. Your lot pop round every few years or so.” The first ghost spoke to me again. He was at the front of the gathering like some kind of spokesperson.
“Yeah,” added a younger man. “I wish you’d pack in. It’s a right ball ache to cross over from the Realm all the bloody time.”
“That’s the whole point,” I argued.
“You don’t understand,” the woman ghost added. “We’re not supposed to leave. We were sent to Coventry and every time you banish us, we have to return.”
I was confused now. Once a ghost was exorcised, they pretty much had to stay exorcised. Really evil spirits did cross back now and then, but they were ancient and desperate to cause trouble. This lot just seemed to be hanging around.
“Just come out of the circle, and we can talk to you. The last exorcists ignored us and forced us to cross, but it’s getting annoying now and you seem like a nice young lady. Perhaps we can explain.”
Reluctantly, I crossed the salt circle into the Cathedral proper. I knew I would get in trouble for this, but my candle flames weren’t flickering with the residue of evil and I guessed these ghosts were relatively harmless. Besides, if they decided to join forces, their combined power could probably destroy the protective magic of the salt circle anyway – if they wanted to harm me, there wouldn’t be much I could do about it, circle or no circle.
“Fine,” I said. “None of you should be here. Even if you hadn’t already been exorcised, you’re still dead – you belong in the Second Realm, where you can come to terms with your passing and move on. There must be plenty pf therapists across there if you need any support.”
“Ordinarily, yes, you would be right,” said the first man, linking his arm through mine and leading me further into the ruined building. I shuddered involuntarily at the coldness of his touch. “But not us. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘sent to Coventry’?”
“Well, yes,” I answered.
“The meaning goes back much further than modern people might believe. You see, certain people among us are … unwelcome … in the Second Realm. Our sorry lot is to remain in the First Realm, your Realm, neither fully living nor granted the rights of the dead. And thus here we are, gathered in Coventry Cathedral. We have been ‘sent to Coventry’, so to speak.”
Ok, now I was really worried. For all their harmless dispositions, what could these people possibly have done to be unwelcome in the world of the dead, of all places? Fear got the better of me and I snatched my arm away. The ghost turned to look at me, a sad and disappointed look in his spectral eyes.
He turned away as he spoke. “My name in life was Richard Raine. I thought I had lived a good life, and I passed away peacefully in my sleep in 1963. On reaching the metaphorical pearly gates, however, I was turned away. As it was explained to me, only the living are entitled to reside in the First Realm, the good dead pass to the Second Realm, and the truly evil are confined to the Third Realm. I, however, fit into none of these three categories. And thus, I find myself in Coventry. The repository for those lost souls who just didn’t quite make it.”
“What did you do to be turned away?” I asked hesitantly.
“I, Richard Raine, was a pedant.”
I recoiled. “You mean – little children? How could you?”
“What?” he blustered. “Dear god, girl, no! I was a pedant – a stickler, a grammarian, a rulebook warrior. I made it my mission to amend, fix and monitor the speech, both written and verbal, of those around me. I appreciated at the time that this was somewhat irritating, but I felt my work was for the greater good. All of us here in our little community were not quite good enough for the Second Realm, but not bad enough for the Third.”
I looked around at the other ghosts in sympathy.
“I cajoled my colleagues into eating my baked goods in the office, even though I knew I was a rubbish baker,” a woman told me.
“I taught my grandkids how to swear,” an old man chimed in, sounding oddly proud.
“I purposely made awful cups of tea for my wife so she would stop asking me to make them.” “Every Christmas, I bought my mum some new technology and left my brother to help her set it up.”
The confessions were coming through thick and fast now, each ghost unburdening themselves of the annoying acts they committed in life which had excluded them from the afterlife. I tried making mental notes to take home, to avoid finding myself in a similar position post-death.
The only ghost who was yet to speak was the teenage boy, who was fidgeting with some kind of ghostly hand-held gaming console. He paused only to belch loudly and stick his hand down the front of his trousers for a good scratch, and I stopped wondering what had sent him here.
“Thank you, all of you,” I said when the stream of revelations had ended. “I really appreciate the honesty from you all.”
The throng had started to recede, and I noted furtive glances between the ghosts. One pair had joined hands tightly as though prepared for the trauma of their exorcism. My heart broke for them. How many times had they been banished, only to be sent back here again? How much more could they take, unwelcome in either life or death?
“Do you think,” I began slowly, “you could … pretend? Lay off the haunting for a while, keep your heads down – you get to stay here, my family still get paid, and I’ll make sure I get assigned to your exorcism next time? I’ll just tell Grandad I done it.”
The spokesperson – spokesghost? – smiled at me. “I’m sure we could manage that,” he said. “And it’s ‘I did it’, not ‘I done it’. Remember that for next time.”
“What’s in Coventry?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he replied. “It’s an immediate requisition – you leave in the morning. Gather what you think you need and pick up your train ticket from your grandmother’s office.”
I knew better than to ask for further details. My desk was small enough to require very little packing –despite being an adult, I didn’t have enough experience to be classed as anything other than a Very Junior, and so I had not yet been granted the privilege of a proper office.
If I was perfectly honest with myself, being an exorcist wasn’t really all it had cracked up to be. My family had been in the business for generations, but all that historical ghost banishing had left very little work for us to do now. Once the spirits were sent out of our world and back to the Second Realm, whether through co-operation or force, they were pretty much gone for good. Only ghosts with a real axe to grind made the effort to cross back over, and those were way out of my league.
I packed my bag with my kit – dried sage, white candles with matches and an electric lighter (not making that mistake again), decent quality salt, and a lunch bag with biscuits and crisps. Those were for me, not the ghosts – I wasn’t paying railway station prices for snacks.
******
Night fell. I watched from my hotel room’s grimy window as the city slowly emptied, daytime visitors beginning to make way for night-time denizens. When a handful of rowdy young men tumbled out of the pub over the road, I decided it was time to start work.
Exorcising a ghost is always a tricky procedure, even when you’re Very Junior and stuck with the basic ones. There are words to recite, and each ritual has to be completed in exactly the right order. Lighting the candles before the sage will not only make the ghost laugh at you but will get you a bollocking from Grandad. Don’t ask me how I know. Ideally, the ritual would be completed at midnight under a full moon, but in practice, as long as it’s dark and free from onlookers, you can usually get away with it. Full moons have a higher chance of success, but the business isn’t doing so well these days and we can’t always afford to wait for the lunar cycle to change.
So it was that I schlepped across the town to Coventry Cathedral, home to a haunting serious enough to send an exorcist straight away, but not so bad that it required a Senior to handle. I wondered what kind of night I would have in store, and how quickly I could pick up a kebab and head back to the hotel.
I stepped over the threshold and inspected my surroundings. There wasn’t much left of the original building, the roof having been completely destroyed, but the walls were mostly intact, and the ground seemed clear. Thank goodness for that – nothing worse than trying to banish a ghost in an old, ruined building with rubble strewn all over the place. Going arse over tit while reciting an incantation really kills any respect the spectre might have for you. Again, don’t ask me how I know.
I placed my backpack down carefully and rummaged for my equipment, laying each piece out in front of me in the order it would be used. Salt first, to draw a circle around myself and then later to sprinkle throughout the building. Four white candles, one at each cardinal direction point, to guide the ghosts through to the Second Realm. A decent quality compass, to figure out where the cardinal direction points actually were. Finally, sage, to burn if my attempt to persuade the ghosts to leave of their own free will didn’t work.
“I call upon the power vested unto me, as a practitioner of apotropaic magics, to cleanse this site of the malignant spirits residing therein. Spirits, hear my call, and return to the Realm which you came from.”
“From which you came,” said a male voice to my right.
“I’m sorry?” I asked. I’d never been interrupted by a ghost before, and wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed.
“Apology accepted. One ought never to end a sentence with a preposition, but you seem young and you will be forgiven.”
The ghost had begun to materialise just outside of the salt circle, and was looking at me expectantly. I had a sudden flashback to the look on Grandma’s face when she was first teaching me the incantation and I had to keep stopping to remember the words. That bland encouragement was patronising fifteen years ago, but as an adult – and on the face of a ghost, no less – it was downright infuriating.
“Fine. I call upon the power vested unto me, as a practitioner of apotropaic magics, to cleanse this site of the malignant spirits residing therein. Spirits, hear my call, and return to the Realm which – the Realm from which you came.”
“Better,” the voice said, “but I would have preferred ‘from whence you came’. Same meaning but it just sounds a bit grander.”
I sighed and lowered my hands. I had multiple ghosts surrounding the circle now, men and women, some as old as my grandparents and some younger than me. One looked like they were only a teenager. I’d never been asked to banish more than two or three spirits at a time, and worry started to creep in.
“Look,” I said, “the owners of the building have hired my company to exorcise you. Please can you just let me get on with it? I’ve never done so many before.”
“No, I think it was your uncle last time. Your lot pop round every few years or so.” The first ghost spoke to me again. He was at the front of the gathering like some kind of spokesperson.
“Yeah,” added a younger man. “I wish you’d pack in. It’s a right ball ache to cross over from the Realm all the bloody time.”
“That’s the whole point,” I argued.
“You don’t understand,” the woman ghost added. “We’re not supposed to leave. We were sent to Coventry and every time you banish us, we have to return.”
I was confused now. Once a ghost was exorcised, they pretty much had to stay exorcised. Really evil spirits did cross back now and then, but they were ancient and desperate to cause trouble. This lot just seemed to be hanging around.
“Just come out of the circle, and we can talk to you. The last exorcists ignored us and forced us to cross, but it’s getting annoying now and you seem like a nice young lady. Perhaps we can explain.”
Reluctantly, I crossed the salt circle into the Cathedral proper. I knew I would get in trouble for this, but my candle flames weren’t flickering with the residue of evil and I guessed these ghosts were relatively harmless. Besides, if they decided to join forces, their combined power could probably destroy the protective magic of the salt circle anyway – if they wanted to harm me, there wouldn’t be much I could do about it, circle or no circle.
“Fine,” I said. “None of you should be here. Even if you hadn’t already been exorcised, you’re still dead – you belong in the Second Realm, where you can come to terms with your passing and move on. There must be plenty pf therapists across there if you need any support.”
“Ordinarily, yes, you would be right,” said the first man, linking his arm through mine and leading me further into the ruined building. I shuddered involuntarily at the coldness of his touch. “But not us. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘sent to Coventry’?”
“Well, yes,” I answered.
“The meaning goes back much further than modern people might believe. You see, certain people among us are … unwelcome … in the Second Realm. Our sorry lot is to remain in the First Realm, your Realm, neither fully living nor granted the rights of the dead. And thus here we are, gathered in Coventry Cathedral. We have been ‘sent to Coventry’, so to speak.”
Ok, now I was really worried. For all their harmless dispositions, what could these people possibly have done to be unwelcome in the world of the dead, of all places? Fear got the better of me and I snatched my arm away. The ghost turned to look at me, a sad and disappointed look in his spectral eyes.
He turned away as he spoke. “My name in life was Richard Raine. I thought I had lived a good life, and I passed away peacefully in my sleep in 1963. On reaching the metaphorical pearly gates, however, I was turned away. As it was explained to me, only the living are entitled to reside in the First Realm, the good dead pass to the Second Realm, and the truly evil are confined to the Third Realm. I, however, fit into none of these three categories. And thus, I find myself in Coventry. The repository for those lost souls who just didn’t quite make it.”
“What did you do to be turned away?” I asked hesitantly.
“I, Richard Raine, was a pedant.”
I recoiled. “You mean – little children? How could you?”
“What?” he blustered. “Dear god, girl, no! I was a pedant – a stickler, a grammarian, a rulebook warrior. I made it my mission to amend, fix and monitor the speech, both written and verbal, of those around me. I appreciated at the time that this was somewhat irritating, but I felt my work was for the greater good. All of us here in our little community were not quite good enough for the Second Realm, but not bad enough for the Third.”
I looked around at the other ghosts in sympathy.
“I cajoled my colleagues into eating my baked goods in the office, even though I knew I was a rubbish baker,” a woman told me.
“I taught my grandkids how to swear,” an old man chimed in, sounding oddly proud.
“I purposely made awful cups of tea for my wife so she would stop asking me to make them.” “Every Christmas, I bought my mum some new technology and left my brother to help her set it up.”
The confessions were coming through thick and fast now, each ghost unburdening themselves of the annoying acts they committed in life which had excluded them from the afterlife. I tried making mental notes to take home, to avoid finding myself in a similar position post-death.
The only ghost who was yet to speak was the teenage boy, who was fidgeting with some kind of ghostly hand-held gaming console. He paused only to belch loudly and stick his hand down the front of his trousers for a good scratch, and I stopped wondering what had sent him here.
“Thank you, all of you,” I said when the stream of revelations had ended. “I really appreciate the honesty from you all.”
The throng had started to recede, and I noted furtive glances between the ghosts. One pair had joined hands tightly as though prepared for the trauma of their exorcism. My heart broke for them. How many times had they been banished, only to be sent back here again? How much more could they take, unwelcome in either life or death?
“Do you think,” I began slowly, “you could … pretend? Lay off the haunting for a while, keep your heads down – you get to stay here, my family still get paid, and I’ll make sure I get assigned to your exorcism next time? I’ll just tell Grandad I done it.”
The spokesperson – spokesghost? – smiled at me. “I’m sure we could manage that,” he said. “And it’s ‘I did it’, not ‘I done it’. Remember that for next time.”
Story 19.
Ryan Hander is Sent to Coventry
June 11, 1994
Guess where I’m spending my summer. Disneyworld? Nope. The beach? Nope. With my friends? Nope nope. I can’t believe I’ll be stuck in Coventry, IL! I mean, it was nice of my sister to say I could come stay with her while mom and dad go on their trip but ugh it’s such a dinky town with nothing to do. Plus it’s full of nosey buttins that totally mess up Lynn’s job, like all the time. These people think they are expert ace crack investigators but not so much, knowwhatImean? Anyways, the actual detective Lynn Spektor (my
sister!) told me about a contest in Coventry. I sent a story in already to Ms Beegarten and Mr Jimmeron. The judges are a librarian and a newspaper reporter! If I win, the cash prize would be cool and I think I’m gonna get paid for mowing the grass at the old people’s home so maybe some $$ coming in there too. But no movie theater, no mall, no other good place to hangout. Lynn says I should check out the bakery cuz they have good cookies and the library is pretty cool. Really, Lynn? library?
June 13
Lynn dropped me off at the library this morning even though it was only like a 10 minute walk over. She “wanted me to see where her office was at in case I needed her” but like I’m not a baby. Aurora is a million times bigger and I don’t get lost there. So anyway it
turns out that the library has a whole shelf of videos so at least I can watch some movies at Lynn’s house. I went to get a library card and the librarian who is the story judge was busy talking to another lady about the new cookies at the bakery while I got my school id out then a delivery lady came in and she put her boxes down on top of my hand! I said “Hey! ” and maybe it was a little loud but I mean I was there first and plus the box pinched my hand and it kinda hurt. Then Ms. Beegarten was all “hush this is the library” and like I know that. I’m never loud in libraries but I don’t like being pinched either! Then I had to wait because they talked to the delivery lady before me and she was all “Hi! Nice to meet you! This is my new route! blah blah blah” and fiiinnnaaaallly when I got to turn in my registration they were all When did you come here? Where are you staying? Where are your parents? How long will you be here? And I think the lady who was talking about cookies wrote down what I said in a notebook! Then I went and picked a couple of videos to borrow and then when I was going to go get lunch I accidentally forgot to check out at the desk and started out the door with the movies. It was an accident! I didn’t mean to take them I just forgot because I was already at the desk to get the library card and when I went to the door there was an alarm that buzzed and it was so embarrassing! I went back to the desk and Ms. Beegarten was all we need to have integrity and the materials are for everyone and like duh. Like she never made a mistake in her whole life?! UGH this summer is going to take forever! Maybe tomorrow will be better cuz I’m going to the Old People’s Home to mow grass and make some money.
June 14
Not. A. Better. Day. Lynn says to hang in there and things will get better but I’m not so sure. I want to go home! So I went to the Senior Living Residence (cuz apparently Old People is rude or something) and got the directions to the gardening shed and the lawn
mower and stuff but I think the gardener talked to people in town because he kept looking suspiciously at me. So I was really careful mowing the grass and I even made sure there was no grass on my shoes when I went in to use the bathroom. Some of the old people
were talking to Mr. Jimmeron from the newspaper about some case they said they solved last month! Lynn will not be happy that they think they solved her case but I said hello politely and waited for a chance to ask Mr. Jimmeron when the story contest winner would be decided. Then that delivery lady came in and put down her boxes and made a joke about hey everyone watch out this kid is a thief which was not funny at all! Especially because after she left one of the old ladies starting saying she couldn’t find her necklace that she put on the desk for a minute and maybe I took it. I said I’m the detective’s little brother I’m not a thief but they all looked at me like I was sneaky! Then the gardener said maybe I shouldn’t come back because there were honest kids that could use a job mowing grass. I said I didn’t take any necklace but they called Lynn to come search me. When she said it was ridiculous cuz I’m a good kid they starting saying stuff like how Lynn wasn’t a very good detective and she was maybe protecting me and not listening to them and I was so mad!!!
June 15
UGH I hate this town. Now I can’t make grass mowing money so I was hoping that maybe I won the story contest and I went to the newspaper office to ask Mr. Jimmeron again when the winner would be announced. But Ms. Beegarten was there so I waited until
they were done talking. And I was super extra polite and everything but that librarian kept glaring at me anyway. She said “Quill, I think maybe dishonest kids should be disqualified” and then he said “Rue, we have to stick to the rules already in place” and
winked at me. So I think maybe he was thinking I was innocent but then that delivery lady came in and put her boxes on the counter. So I tried to move out of her way but my elbow bumped her boxes and a bunch of papers got pushed on the floor and I said I was sorry and helped pick stuff up but then they said oh wait the prize money was there so she moved her boxes again and the money was gone and everybody looked at me. I was right there but I didn’t touch that money but no one believed me and they called Lynn
again! I told her no way did I take any money! They said now there were 3 thefts only it was two because the library movies were definitely not a theft they were a mistake. She told me to stay home tomorrow please because the town busybodies were starting their investigations again and they were going to mess up evidence like they always do and she’d be lucky to get any kind of a break.
June 17
So I went over to Swana Henson’s Muffin Tin bakery today to get some cookies and lemonade. Swana Henson is the lady who was talking about cookies at the library. I put my order in and waved at the old people who were at a table together because I
recognized them from the SLR and Lynn said to just keep being polite to people. They were talking about the reporter Quill and his weird cat who… gave clues. What kind of cat can give clues??? Then the bakery lady said my order was ready and when I went to get
it Debbie the Delivery lady (no really she has been introducing herself as Delivery Debbie) was ordering a Swedish coffee and she said “hey be sure to count your money this kid has been at every robbery in this town” and “I bet there weren’t so many robberies before he came, right?” It’s so unfair! It’s like someone is following me around and trying to get me in trouble! I would want to try to prove that I’m innocent but Lynn says absolutely do not start messing around with investigating because everybody thinks they are an amazing detective but they just get in the way of real detectives who know what they are doing.
June 18
This stinks. UGH. There was another robbery and guess where? Yeah. At the bakery! I mean how can this keep happening? Yeah I was there but I did not take any envelopes with bank deposits in them. I didn’t even see any envelopes or papers or whatever at the
bakery! Now Lynn’s boss says that the town people are complaining about me and it is not fair at all. Because I DID NOT DO ANYTHING!
June 19
Nothing interesting. Lynn says I can mow her lawn and she will pay me but I shouldn’t go anywhere else today. Not fair! I miss my friends.
June 20
I’m NEVER coming back here! I went for a walk and when I came back the librarian and the cookie lady and the reporter and the old people were IN LYNN’S HOUSE and were looking in my room to find the stolen stuff but they didn’t find anything because none of
that stuff is here because I did NOT take anything! Except almost the videos but that was a mistake. I called Lynn and she came home and told them to stop snooping because they messed up her fingerprint checks by moving things around and touching everything and questioning people which made the people mess up the details and other stuff like that. And they could be arrested for going in her house so just stop it!
June 21
Lynn told me to tell her again what all has happened since I got here. I looked at my journal to help remember everything and when I told her that I yelled in the library she said I didn’t tell her that before (cuz I forgot I guess) and why did I yell? So I told her the
box pinched my hand and she got like a weird look on her face and said she needed to make some calls and to stay home.
June 24
Finally a good day! Lynn has been working a lot and I watched all of the movies. She took them back to the library for me and said still stay home. But she said you should not be bored stuck at home and she gave me a Super Nintendo!! SCORE!
June 28
BEST DAY! So I was playing Super Mario and Donkey Kong and then I heard the police sirens! And Lynn came home later and then she took me out to a restaurant for dinner and said I gave her an important clue. A box should not have pinched my hand but there are trick boxes that can pick stuff up and that is something a thief might use. And Lynn told me they searched the delivery truck and the delivery lady’s house too and guess what they found? That Debbie lady was the actual real thief! She had a tricky box that she put on top of things and it would pick them up and hide them in the box. She told people I was sneaky but she was the real sneaky one! Then we walked around town and Lynn told everybody that they should apologize to me and they should definitely let her be the detective and they can stick to solving mysteries in a book or on TV!
Guess where I’m spending my summer. Disneyworld? Nope. The beach? Nope. With my friends? Nope nope. I can’t believe I’ll be stuck in Coventry, IL! I mean, it was nice of my sister to say I could come stay with her while mom and dad go on their trip but ugh it’s such a dinky town with nothing to do. Plus it’s full of nosey buttins that totally mess up Lynn’s job, like all the time. These people think they are expert ace crack investigators but not so much, knowwhatImean? Anyways, the actual detective Lynn Spektor (my
sister!) told me about a contest in Coventry. I sent a story in already to Ms Beegarten and Mr Jimmeron. The judges are a librarian and a newspaper reporter! If I win, the cash prize would be cool and I think I’m gonna get paid for mowing the grass at the old people’s home so maybe some $$ coming in there too. But no movie theater, no mall, no other good place to hangout. Lynn says I should check out the bakery cuz they have good cookies and the library is pretty cool. Really, Lynn? library?
June 13
Lynn dropped me off at the library this morning even though it was only like a 10 minute walk over. She “wanted me to see where her office was at in case I needed her” but like I’m not a baby. Aurora is a million times bigger and I don’t get lost there. So anyway it
turns out that the library has a whole shelf of videos so at least I can watch some movies at Lynn’s house. I went to get a library card and the librarian who is the story judge was busy talking to another lady about the new cookies at the bakery while I got my school id out then a delivery lady came in and she put her boxes down on top of my hand! I said “Hey! ” and maybe it was a little loud but I mean I was there first and plus the box pinched my hand and it kinda hurt. Then Ms. Beegarten was all “hush this is the library” and like I know that. I’m never loud in libraries but I don’t like being pinched either! Then I had to wait because they talked to the delivery lady before me and she was all “Hi! Nice to meet you! This is my new route! blah blah blah” and fiiinnnaaaallly when I got to turn in my registration they were all When did you come here? Where are you staying? Where are your parents? How long will you be here? And I think the lady who was talking about cookies wrote down what I said in a notebook! Then I went and picked a couple of videos to borrow and then when I was going to go get lunch I accidentally forgot to check out at the desk and started out the door with the movies. It was an accident! I didn’t mean to take them I just forgot because I was already at the desk to get the library card and when I went to the door there was an alarm that buzzed and it was so embarrassing! I went back to the desk and Ms. Beegarten was all we need to have integrity and the materials are for everyone and like duh. Like she never made a mistake in her whole life?! UGH this summer is going to take forever! Maybe tomorrow will be better cuz I’m going to the Old People’s Home to mow grass and make some money.
June 14
Not. A. Better. Day. Lynn says to hang in there and things will get better but I’m not so sure. I want to go home! So I went to the Senior Living Residence (cuz apparently Old People is rude or something) and got the directions to the gardening shed and the lawn
mower and stuff but I think the gardener talked to people in town because he kept looking suspiciously at me. So I was really careful mowing the grass and I even made sure there was no grass on my shoes when I went in to use the bathroom. Some of the old people
were talking to Mr. Jimmeron from the newspaper about some case they said they solved last month! Lynn will not be happy that they think they solved her case but I said hello politely and waited for a chance to ask Mr. Jimmeron when the story contest winner would be decided. Then that delivery lady came in and put down her boxes and made a joke about hey everyone watch out this kid is a thief which was not funny at all! Especially because after she left one of the old ladies starting saying she couldn’t find her necklace that she put on the desk for a minute and maybe I took it. I said I’m the detective’s little brother I’m not a thief but they all looked at me like I was sneaky! Then the gardener said maybe I shouldn’t come back because there were honest kids that could use a job mowing grass. I said I didn’t take any necklace but they called Lynn to come search me. When she said it was ridiculous cuz I’m a good kid they starting saying stuff like how Lynn wasn’t a very good detective and she was maybe protecting me and not listening to them and I was so mad!!!
June 15
UGH I hate this town. Now I can’t make grass mowing money so I was hoping that maybe I won the story contest and I went to the newspaper office to ask Mr. Jimmeron again when the winner would be announced. But Ms. Beegarten was there so I waited until
they were done talking. And I was super extra polite and everything but that librarian kept glaring at me anyway. She said “Quill, I think maybe dishonest kids should be disqualified” and then he said “Rue, we have to stick to the rules already in place” and
winked at me. So I think maybe he was thinking I was innocent but then that delivery lady came in and put her boxes on the counter. So I tried to move out of her way but my elbow bumped her boxes and a bunch of papers got pushed on the floor and I said I was sorry and helped pick stuff up but then they said oh wait the prize money was there so she moved her boxes again and the money was gone and everybody looked at me. I was right there but I didn’t touch that money but no one believed me and they called Lynn
again! I told her no way did I take any money! They said now there were 3 thefts only it was two because the library movies were definitely not a theft they were a mistake. She told me to stay home tomorrow please because the town busybodies were starting their investigations again and they were going to mess up evidence like they always do and she’d be lucky to get any kind of a break.
June 17
So I went over to Swana Henson’s Muffin Tin bakery today to get some cookies and lemonade. Swana Henson is the lady who was talking about cookies at the library. I put my order in and waved at the old people who were at a table together because I
recognized them from the SLR and Lynn said to just keep being polite to people. They were talking about the reporter Quill and his weird cat who… gave clues. What kind of cat can give clues??? Then the bakery lady said my order was ready and when I went to get
it Debbie the Delivery lady (no really she has been introducing herself as Delivery Debbie) was ordering a Swedish coffee and she said “hey be sure to count your money this kid has been at every robbery in this town” and “I bet there weren’t so many robberies before he came, right?” It’s so unfair! It’s like someone is following me around and trying to get me in trouble! I would want to try to prove that I’m innocent but Lynn says absolutely do not start messing around with investigating because everybody thinks they are an amazing detective but they just get in the way of real detectives who know what they are doing.
June 18
This stinks. UGH. There was another robbery and guess where? Yeah. At the bakery! I mean how can this keep happening? Yeah I was there but I did not take any envelopes with bank deposits in them. I didn’t even see any envelopes or papers or whatever at the
bakery! Now Lynn’s boss says that the town people are complaining about me and it is not fair at all. Because I DID NOT DO ANYTHING!
June 19
Nothing interesting. Lynn says I can mow her lawn and she will pay me but I shouldn’t go anywhere else today. Not fair! I miss my friends.
June 20
I’m NEVER coming back here! I went for a walk and when I came back the librarian and the cookie lady and the reporter and the old people were IN LYNN’S HOUSE and were looking in my room to find the stolen stuff but they didn’t find anything because none of
that stuff is here because I did NOT take anything! Except almost the videos but that was a mistake. I called Lynn and she came home and told them to stop snooping because they messed up her fingerprint checks by moving things around and touching everything and questioning people which made the people mess up the details and other stuff like that. And they could be arrested for going in her house so just stop it!
June 21
Lynn told me to tell her again what all has happened since I got here. I looked at my journal to help remember everything and when I told her that I yelled in the library she said I didn’t tell her that before (cuz I forgot I guess) and why did I yell? So I told her the
box pinched my hand and she got like a weird look on her face and said she needed to make some calls and to stay home.
June 24
Finally a good day! Lynn has been working a lot and I watched all of the movies. She took them back to the library for me and said still stay home. But she said you should not be bored stuck at home and she gave me a Super Nintendo!! SCORE!
June 28
BEST DAY! So I was playing Super Mario and Donkey Kong and then I heard the police sirens! And Lynn came home later and then she took me out to a restaurant for dinner and said I gave her an important clue. A box should not have pinched my hand but there are trick boxes that can pick stuff up and that is something a thief might use. And Lynn told me they searched the delivery truck and the delivery lady’s house too and guess what they found? That Debbie lady was the actual real thief! She had a tricky box that she put on top of things and it would pick them up and hide them in the box. She told people I was sneaky but she was the real sneaky one! Then we walked around town and Lynn told everybody that they should apologize to me and they should definitely let her be the detective and they can stick to solving mysteries in a book or on TV!
Story 20.
Sent to Coventry
Michelle stood in the centre of the attic room and sighed. With hands on her hips, she looked around in despair at the mess of jumbled clothing, stacks of dusty books, and piles of papers. She sincerely doubted she’d find what she was looking for in the midst of all the junk. A combination of rail strikes and the unseasonal climate had meant she’d had to make the almost two-and-a-half-hour drive from Coventry to London. It was a last-minute journey full of copious amounts of coffee and cursing at the Great British Weather for being predictably unpredictable and snowing in March. Still, a promise was a promise. She had to find the teapot.
She surveyed the room again taking stock of a shelf full of old jigsaw puzzles, some porcelain trinkets, and layers of ancient bedding. Nobody would ever guess how messy it was from an examination of the rest of her nana’s prim and tidy townhouse but then again, many people had secrets in the attic – just ask the Brontë sisters. Although Michelle’s nana had moved into a nursing home just prior to the pandemic, the property had only just been put up for sale and until recently a cleaner had kept everything in order. The attic, however, hadn’t been touched for years for the simple reason that nobody knew where the key was. In fact, the door had been locked for as long as Michelle could remember. The family had had to put the house on the market with a disclaimer that stated the room hadn’t been accessed recently (a white lie) and the buyer would need to obtain the services of a locksmith upon taking possession of the property.
Michelle’s mother had never known the attic to be used for anything in particular and so it didn’t seem necessary for the family to try to force their way in when selling the house. She had a vague memory of seeing it used for storage when she had been a child but couldn’t recall anything of significance ever being put in there. However, the news that the cleaner on her final day had recovered the attic key from inside an ancient golden syrup tin (thankfully minus its original contents) at the back of a kitchen cupboard had been the catalyst for Michelle’s trip to London. Since nobody knew what teapot her nana was talking about, she had wondered if this mysterious object that her nana was so desperate to track down had been stored in the room at some point and forgotten about.
Her nana’s illness had robbed her of the ability to recognise her closest family but she had recognised Michelle again two days previously and had begged her to return to London and bring the teapot back to her. Whenever Michelle or any other family members asked about the significance of the teapot, her nana’s eyes would glaze over and she was lost to them again. For almost 48 hours she had persisted in asking Michelle to locate the teapot after overhearing a phone call from the cleaner who had uncovered the attic key after so long. The family couldn’t get to the bottom of the mystery and the urgency.
To humour her nana in her final days and soothe her mind Michelle thought about pretending to go to London but despite her illness, nobody could pull the wool over her nana’s eyes. She had two choices: pretend to go to London and stay away from her nana for a few days, by which time it might be too late to say goodbye, or she could actually make the trip to try to find the teapot and discover its significance. Armed with the attic door key, she chose the latter. It clearly meant something to her nana, and she wouldn’t ignore or dismiss her dying request just because nobody could see the sense in it.
Something crunched underfoot as Michelle moved through the attic. She shuddered and resisted the urge to look down, fearing it might be something furry or slimy. It didn’t sound like a china teapot breaking so she put it to the back of her mind. Keep calm and carry on she thought with a wry smile. That was her nana’s philosophy. Michelle forged another path across the attic in the direction of the high, circular window. Faces of family members long departed met her eyes as she walked further on and came across an antique dressing table cluttered with hairbrushes, hatpins, and several framed sepia photographs.
One photograph, in particular, stopped her in her tracks. It looked to be some kind of street party from years gone by. The union jack bunting was unmistakable despite the absence of colour. Coupled with the fashions on display Michelle guessed that the photo had been taken towards the end of the second world war. The faces didn’t all look healthy – wars are never healthy - but everyone looked happy and free. What a time to be alive thought Michelle. Her nana had been a young woman at the time, and sure enough, she soon spotted her towards the back of the happy gang in the photo. She wondered who the other people were and what had become of them. Had they faded away like her nana? Even so, their images lived on. It wasn’t so easy to erase all traces of a life. Or it shouldn’t be Michelle thought with a pang.
Another picture showed her grandparents on their wedding day, two people full of love, hope, and dreams. She drank in the image, heart aching at the thought of life without this sweet and remarkable woman. After examining several more snapshots from her grandparents’ youth, Michelle tenderly returned them and wiped a tear from her eye.
Although she’d left the door to the attic open, very little light permeated the space and Michelle knew that the electricity had been disconnected on the cleaner’s last day. Wiping the dust from the window with her jacket sleeve she felt rather like Paddington Bear as she peeked out at the great city below her. In the distance, she could just glimpse the glittering ribbon that was the Thames reflecting the sun’s rays. Daylight then streamed into the room, slithering over the contents like a hungry serpent, her desire to find the teapot physically manifesting itself. Even with the light, she doubted she would ever find it though. There were far too many hiding places, even assuming it was still in one piece, and Michelle had no idea what it looked like.
Michelle searched for hours only pausing when lights outside began to twinkle as the twilight deepened and moved closer into night. She took a break and stood at the window sipping yet more coffee, musing that unless she suddenly stumbled across a lamp, her search was over for the day. The thought of time slipping through her fingers like sand tormented her mind. Her nana didn’t have long left; should Michelle risk extending her stay and her search? Or should she return to Coventry and attempt to explain to her nana that she couldn’t find the teapot?
She took a moment just to breathe and reflect. It was a spectacular view and she knew why her nana had loved the neighbourhood so much. In her mind, Michelle travelled back through the years and relived some of the special times she’d spent in the house and the neighbourhood with her grandparents. She’d learned to ride her bike on the pavement below, she’d enjoyed afternoon tea with her nana on the terrace in the garden, and she’d enjoyed feeding the ducks in the park at the end of the road with her grandfather, especially when the swans turned up, nipped at his trousers, and chased him across the grass for the birdseed in his pockets. Swans could be hostile – she’d read that somewhere once – but they’d really had it in for her poor grandfather.
Michelle smiled as she saw elderly Mr Harris shuffling along the street. He was a connection to her grandparents that she hadn’t yet lost having been army pals with her grandfather. Following his death Mr Harris had kept his promise to keep an eye out for her nana who, even when her entire family was based in Coventry, had remained in her London townhouse. It was her home and the place in which she’d spent most of her life. It was where her memories were – they were held together within the walls of the house, and with it, her happiness. Her nana had never wanted to leave because she had never wanted to forget. And then her worst nightmare had come true when she had begun to do precisely that.
She had cried on leaving the house for the final time. Michelle now realised just how much she had been relying on her home to safeguard her memories and the pieces of the puzzle that had made up her life. The attic was like her nana’s mind; the room wasn’t full of junk, it was full of priceless but disordered treasures and jumbled records of events possibly already lost to living memory. Michelle knew she should stay and continue her search for the teapot but she wanted to say a final goodbye to her nana. She felt selfish; seeing her family was no longer important to her nana in her current condition. What was important to her was the teapot.
Before Michelle could determine her next course of action, the decision was made for her. She was startled out of her trip down memory lane by the sound of the heavy front door knocker being rattled. She witnessed the birds in the trees take flight at the noise. For a split second, she revelled in watching them soar away from the trees binding them to the world and towards the freedom of the sky. Michelle snapped out of her reverie and glanced out of the window to see Mr Harris. He looked up and caught her eye. She raised a hand in greeting and made her way out of the attic and down through the storeys of the house.
As she did so, her phone rang. Fishing it out of her pocket she prepared to update her mother with the news that the teapot remained lost.
‘Michelle, she’s just gone.’ Her mother’s voice coming from the phone was quiet, as though the news was reaching Michelle from across a vast ocean of disbelief. ‘She got a letter from Mr Harris. The last thing she did was look over it. I don’t know if it made any sense to her but it made her smile. You can come home now. I’m sorry you weren’t here at the end but she didn’t know who we were any more. I’ll ring you back in a minute. The doctor’s here. We’ll have to thank Mr Harris for thinking of her.’
Numb with shock Michelle opened the door to a smiling Mr Harris. He knew instantly that his old friend was gone. He patted Michelle’s hand and she reached forward, gently embracing him.
‘She got your letter,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘It made her smile so she must have remembered you despite - ’ Her voice caught in her throat.
‘Oh, it was nothing really. Just a silly joke. I just hoped it reached her in time. I knew there was a good chance it wouldn’t mean anything to her, but it meant something to me. Does that make sense?’
Michelle nodded. ‘It does.’
‘It was the last jigsaw puzzle we did together and it bothered her that we could never find the last piece. It was quite a hideous puzzle actually but I found the last bit and thought I’d send it on to her in Coventry.’
Michelle laughed; her nana would have appreciated that. ‘What was the picture of?’ she asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.
‘A teapot.’
THE END
She surveyed the room again taking stock of a shelf full of old jigsaw puzzles, some porcelain trinkets, and layers of ancient bedding. Nobody would ever guess how messy it was from an examination of the rest of her nana’s prim and tidy townhouse but then again, many people had secrets in the attic – just ask the Brontë sisters. Although Michelle’s nana had moved into a nursing home just prior to the pandemic, the property had only just been put up for sale and until recently a cleaner had kept everything in order. The attic, however, hadn’t been touched for years for the simple reason that nobody knew where the key was. In fact, the door had been locked for as long as Michelle could remember. The family had had to put the house on the market with a disclaimer that stated the room hadn’t been accessed recently (a white lie) and the buyer would need to obtain the services of a locksmith upon taking possession of the property.
Michelle’s mother had never known the attic to be used for anything in particular and so it didn’t seem necessary for the family to try to force their way in when selling the house. She had a vague memory of seeing it used for storage when she had been a child but couldn’t recall anything of significance ever being put in there. However, the news that the cleaner on her final day had recovered the attic key from inside an ancient golden syrup tin (thankfully minus its original contents) at the back of a kitchen cupboard had been the catalyst for Michelle’s trip to London. Since nobody knew what teapot her nana was talking about, she had wondered if this mysterious object that her nana was so desperate to track down had been stored in the room at some point and forgotten about.
Her nana’s illness had robbed her of the ability to recognise her closest family but she had recognised Michelle again two days previously and had begged her to return to London and bring the teapot back to her. Whenever Michelle or any other family members asked about the significance of the teapot, her nana’s eyes would glaze over and she was lost to them again. For almost 48 hours she had persisted in asking Michelle to locate the teapot after overhearing a phone call from the cleaner who had uncovered the attic key after so long. The family couldn’t get to the bottom of the mystery and the urgency.
To humour her nana in her final days and soothe her mind Michelle thought about pretending to go to London but despite her illness, nobody could pull the wool over her nana’s eyes. She had two choices: pretend to go to London and stay away from her nana for a few days, by which time it might be too late to say goodbye, or she could actually make the trip to try to find the teapot and discover its significance. Armed with the attic door key, she chose the latter. It clearly meant something to her nana, and she wouldn’t ignore or dismiss her dying request just because nobody could see the sense in it.
Something crunched underfoot as Michelle moved through the attic. She shuddered and resisted the urge to look down, fearing it might be something furry or slimy. It didn’t sound like a china teapot breaking so she put it to the back of her mind. Keep calm and carry on she thought with a wry smile. That was her nana’s philosophy. Michelle forged another path across the attic in the direction of the high, circular window. Faces of family members long departed met her eyes as she walked further on and came across an antique dressing table cluttered with hairbrushes, hatpins, and several framed sepia photographs.
One photograph, in particular, stopped her in her tracks. It looked to be some kind of street party from years gone by. The union jack bunting was unmistakable despite the absence of colour. Coupled with the fashions on display Michelle guessed that the photo had been taken towards the end of the second world war. The faces didn’t all look healthy – wars are never healthy - but everyone looked happy and free. What a time to be alive thought Michelle. Her nana had been a young woman at the time, and sure enough, she soon spotted her towards the back of the happy gang in the photo. She wondered who the other people were and what had become of them. Had they faded away like her nana? Even so, their images lived on. It wasn’t so easy to erase all traces of a life. Or it shouldn’t be Michelle thought with a pang.
Another picture showed her grandparents on their wedding day, two people full of love, hope, and dreams. She drank in the image, heart aching at the thought of life without this sweet and remarkable woman. After examining several more snapshots from her grandparents’ youth, Michelle tenderly returned them and wiped a tear from her eye.
Although she’d left the door to the attic open, very little light permeated the space and Michelle knew that the electricity had been disconnected on the cleaner’s last day. Wiping the dust from the window with her jacket sleeve she felt rather like Paddington Bear as she peeked out at the great city below her. In the distance, she could just glimpse the glittering ribbon that was the Thames reflecting the sun’s rays. Daylight then streamed into the room, slithering over the contents like a hungry serpent, her desire to find the teapot physically manifesting itself. Even with the light, she doubted she would ever find it though. There were far too many hiding places, even assuming it was still in one piece, and Michelle had no idea what it looked like.
Michelle searched for hours only pausing when lights outside began to twinkle as the twilight deepened and moved closer into night. She took a break and stood at the window sipping yet more coffee, musing that unless she suddenly stumbled across a lamp, her search was over for the day. The thought of time slipping through her fingers like sand tormented her mind. Her nana didn’t have long left; should Michelle risk extending her stay and her search? Or should she return to Coventry and attempt to explain to her nana that she couldn’t find the teapot?
She took a moment just to breathe and reflect. It was a spectacular view and she knew why her nana had loved the neighbourhood so much. In her mind, Michelle travelled back through the years and relived some of the special times she’d spent in the house and the neighbourhood with her grandparents. She’d learned to ride her bike on the pavement below, she’d enjoyed afternoon tea with her nana on the terrace in the garden, and she’d enjoyed feeding the ducks in the park at the end of the road with her grandfather, especially when the swans turned up, nipped at his trousers, and chased him across the grass for the birdseed in his pockets. Swans could be hostile – she’d read that somewhere once – but they’d really had it in for her poor grandfather.
Michelle smiled as she saw elderly Mr Harris shuffling along the street. He was a connection to her grandparents that she hadn’t yet lost having been army pals with her grandfather. Following his death Mr Harris had kept his promise to keep an eye out for her nana who, even when her entire family was based in Coventry, had remained in her London townhouse. It was her home and the place in which she’d spent most of her life. It was where her memories were – they were held together within the walls of the house, and with it, her happiness. Her nana had never wanted to leave because she had never wanted to forget. And then her worst nightmare had come true when she had begun to do precisely that.
She had cried on leaving the house for the final time. Michelle now realised just how much she had been relying on her home to safeguard her memories and the pieces of the puzzle that had made up her life. The attic was like her nana’s mind; the room wasn’t full of junk, it was full of priceless but disordered treasures and jumbled records of events possibly already lost to living memory. Michelle knew she should stay and continue her search for the teapot but she wanted to say a final goodbye to her nana. She felt selfish; seeing her family was no longer important to her nana in her current condition. What was important to her was the teapot.
Before Michelle could determine her next course of action, the decision was made for her. She was startled out of her trip down memory lane by the sound of the heavy front door knocker being rattled. She witnessed the birds in the trees take flight at the noise. For a split second, she revelled in watching them soar away from the trees binding them to the world and towards the freedom of the sky. Michelle snapped out of her reverie and glanced out of the window to see Mr Harris. He looked up and caught her eye. She raised a hand in greeting and made her way out of the attic and down through the storeys of the house.
As she did so, her phone rang. Fishing it out of her pocket she prepared to update her mother with the news that the teapot remained lost.
‘Michelle, she’s just gone.’ Her mother’s voice coming from the phone was quiet, as though the news was reaching Michelle from across a vast ocean of disbelief. ‘She got a letter from Mr Harris. The last thing she did was look over it. I don’t know if it made any sense to her but it made her smile. You can come home now. I’m sorry you weren’t here at the end but she didn’t know who we were any more. I’ll ring you back in a minute. The doctor’s here. We’ll have to thank Mr Harris for thinking of her.’
Numb with shock Michelle opened the door to a smiling Mr Harris. He knew instantly that his old friend was gone. He patted Michelle’s hand and she reached forward, gently embracing him.
‘She got your letter,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘It made her smile so she must have remembered you despite - ’ Her voice caught in her throat.
‘Oh, it was nothing really. Just a silly joke. I just hoped it reached her in time. I knew there was a good chance it wouldn’t mean anything to her, but it meant something to me. Does that make sense?’
Michelle nodded. ‘It does.’
‘It was the last jigsaw puzzle we did together and it bothered her that we could never find the last piece. It was quite a hideous puzzle actually but I found the last bit and thought I’d send it on to her in Coventry.’
Michelle laughed; her nana would have appreciated that. ‘What was the picture of?’ she asked, suspecting she already knew the answer.
‘A teapot.’
THE END
Story 21.
Sent to Coventry
They say power corrupts. And it does. But in a post apocalyptic world where the constraints of society have crumbled under the weight of fear and hunger, then the game changes. The power lies with those who survive and survive well. Those who thrive in the world where laws no longer exist, where strength comes from subjugation and where hope has been extinguished in the dying light of humanity.
We heard the rumours first. Then the videos surfaced on social media, the news outlets were twitchy. It felt familiar, we had been here before. It was a virus, but this virus spread by air, by touch , by droplet, by bite. Once exposed death would occur within an hour. You would endure the horror of knowing what was coming but it would only be for a few minutes before your thoughts and emotions were taken from you. You would be frenzied, lashing out and attacking anything and anybody who came near you before your legs and arms would lose their strength leaving you immobile and waiting.
They were prepared this time but not with aid or shelter. Instead, within hours of the first case on our shores, an armoured cordon stretched the width of England and Wales, and the North was lost. There was no getting through, I know because I tried.
Then it was San and I, alone. My parents were beyond the barrier, in the North. Other family to the East haven’t been seen or heard from in a year. We survived. Food became scarce as supplies dwindled. Medical supplies all but disappeared and were jealously hoarded. What was left was controlled by those who have thrived in a broken world and it was the unlikely ones who skulked at the edge of society in brighter days who then sat upon the ebbing remains of our stores.
I recognised the signs, not of the virus but of the one of the diseases that nature still inflicted upon us. San’s disappearing appetite left her unable to eat even a mouthful of grain, but her thirst was unquenchable. Pint after pint of water for a thirst that was never sated. The weight slipped away, and her breath took on a fruity acidic tone. In a week I would have lost her if not days.
In zone 1 , the name for the remnants of Oxford, the remaining medicine store was in the skeleton of the abandoned hospital. I heard it wasn’t guarded. No one would steal from there, they knew the consequences. Beatings, separation, forced labour or worse, being sent to Coventry. Coventry was the site of the only gate on the barrier. If you were sent there, you weren’t coming back, ever.
San’s skin was pale, her breathing was rapid and shallow. I’d carried and dragged her the six miles to the hospital.
“Leave me” she whispered. Her hand rested weakly on my arm. I shook my head and lay her in the grass.
“Never” I replied.
The signs still hung from the walls and led me easily to the pharmacy. It was intact. The door was locked but there was a window I could break. I threw a brick and it smashed, the shrieking of splintering glass echoed through the corridors. I climbed through and searched and upon finding the vials I pushed them hastily into my bag.
It was only then I heard it. Breathing. Behind me.
“You need something Lydia?” a voice asked. My voice failed me. My legs failed me. I dropped the bag.
“Be careful. You wouldn’t want to break that. It’s precious stuff. Expensive. Worth something” he warned.
“San isn’t looking too well out there. Could be she needs this”. He pulled the vials out one by one and placed them back into the cupboard and closed the door.
Colin. An ordinary man. Yet in the breakdown of society that eventually came, he had survived, prospered even. The success that had eluded him before, now greeted him in the new world. Whilst I and others were trying desperately to reach family or friends, travelling miles with the last remnants of fuel and food, he had quietly taken control. I had missed the first few weeks when he insidiously tightened his grasp. He was helpful, people began to recognise him and trust him. He slowly he built his army around him until the control of every aspect of our lives lay in his power.
Colin , an unremarkable man, an ordinary man, a man who until now didn’t know I had survived. My ex-husband and a bastard.
I reached out and swung at him. I missed but he tripped and fell backwards giving me enough time to leap over his sprawled body and take to the corridors. The fear grabbed my throat as I stumbled into the daylight.
San waved weakly from where she lay. “Go” she whispered “just go” as I lifted her up and draped her arm over my shoulder. I knew the paths well and we limped slowly taking the wider path to the left which led down to the river. There we could rest and wait. We would need to leave. There would be no safety now he knew I was alive.
I crouched in the undergrowth and listened. All I needed to do was to carry San over the road and then we would be safe. So near but fate was never going to be on my side. I felt his hand on my neck before I saw him. I felt San fall to the floor. I screamed as the last chance of freedom slipped from me.
“Time to send you both to Coventry, if you survive that long”. His insipid eyes glinted with mirth.
“ Two more for you, Jo ” he called to a large, craggy looking man who stood by a van on the road. “I’ve no use for them. One’s half dead and the other one is more trouble than I’d like”.
He grabbed San and threw her over his shoulder and pulled me roughly to my feet. My feeble attempts to kick and hit were useless, he batted them away and threw us in the back of the van. Two women sat huddled in the corner. We did not speak to each other. I didn’t want to see my fear reflected in their eyes and my heart could not hold their fear. San slumped limply against me.
I think I almost fell asleep, lulled by the quiet. Fatigued and drained I let my eyes close.
It was the moaning that woke me. The moaning and the growling. The wet, sticky breathing. It was the most horrifying sound I had ever heard. I hammered on the van screaming with rage and desperation. The van stopped and the doors were flung open, Jo peered in.
“Shit” he exclaimed before turning and running into the woodland. Whatever they had promised him in Coventry was not enough for this.
I had already decided what I needed to do and even as the older of the women looked to me with pleading eyes, I think she knew too. I whispered “I’m sorry” as I lifted San out and closed the doors locking them inside.
And that’s how I waited for death to find us. In a cool breeze under a canopy of oak trees. The two of us who had entered this world together would leave together as well.
San started shaking first. Her eyes glazed over, and her jaw hung slack. Tears formed in the edges of her eyes. Her body was too weak for even the virus to take control of her fully and she lay on the floor, a macabre puppet, flailing her limbs. I was exposed too, it would only be a matter of time for me, and I held her in my arms , her limbs hitting me uncontrollably but reminding me that even if for only a short time, we were both alive and together. I talked of our childhood. I sang the songs we knew. I stroked her hair. And as her breath slowed I made my final decision. I would not wait any longer. I’d leave with her on my terms.
It’s harder than you think to bite someone else. But I did. Quickly and only enough to break the skin allowing me to swallow a few drops of blood . I thought at least this way, it would be quicker. Then I held her and despite everything I fell asleep, San safely in my arms.
“Lydia”.
I could hear my name.
“Lydia” There it was again, more urgent this time.
“Lydia, wake up”. It was San’s voice. I smiled, the sound of her voice comforting me.
Then someone grabbed my shoulders and shook me roughly. “ Wake up now!”. I opened my eyes quickly, startled. San knelt beside me. Her skin looked warm and healthy. Her eyes bright. There was no weakness, no rabid fever.
“How? I whispered.
“You, Lydia. You did this. “ She showed me the bite mark on her arm. It was healed, barely visible now.
The realisation then hit me. There was hope.
“What do we do now?”
She held my hand, and we stood in the sunlight.
“Run” she said. “We run”.
The End
We heard the rumours first. Then the videos surfaced on social media, the news outlets were twitchy. It felt familiar, we had been here before. It was a virus, but this virus spread by air, by touch , by droplet, by bite. Once exposed death would occur within an hour. You would endure the horror of knowing what was coming but it would only be for a few minutes before your thoughts and emotions were taken from you. You would be frenzied, lashing out and attacking anything and anybody who came near you before your legs and arms would lose their strength leaving you immobile and waiting.
They were prepared this time but not with aid or shelter. Instead, within hours of the first case on our shores, an armoured cordon stretched the width of England and Wales, and the North was lost. There was no getting through, I know because I tried.
Then it was San and I, alone. My parents were beyond the barrier, in the North. Other family to the East haven’t been seen or heard from in a year. We survived. Food became scarce as supplies dwindled. Medical supplies all but disappeared and were jealously hoarded. What was left was controlled by those who have thrived in a broken world and it was the unlikely ones who skulked at the edge of society in brighter days who then sat upon the ebbing remains of our stores.
I recognised the signs, not of the virus but of the one of the diseases that nature still inflicted upon us. San’s disappearing appetite left her unable to eat even a mouthful of grain, but her thirst was unquenchable. Pint after pint of water for a thirst that was never sated. The weight slipped away, and her breath took on a fruity acidic tone. In a week I would have lost her if not days.
In zone 1 , the name for the remnants of Oxford, the remaining medicine store was in the skeleton of the abandoned hospital. I heard it wasn’t guarded. No one would steal from there, they knew the consequences. Beatings, separation, forced labour or worse, being sent to Coventry. Coventry was the site of the only gate on the barrier. If you were sent there, you weren’t coming back, ever.
San’s skin was pale, her breathing was rapid and shallow. I’d carried and dragged her the six miles to the hospital.
“Leave me” she whispered. Her hand rested weakly on my arm. I shook my head and lay her in the grass.
“Never” I replied.
The signs still hung from the walls and led me easily to the pharmacy. It was intact. The door was locked but there was a window I could break. I threw a brick and it smashed, the shrieking of splintering glass echoed through the corridors. I climbed through and searched and upon finding the vials I pushed them hastily into my bag.
It was only then I heard it. Breathing. Behind me.
“You need something Lydia?” a voice asked. My voice failed me. My legs failed me. I dropped the bag.
“Be careful. You wouldn’t want to break that. It’s precious stuff. Expensive. Worth something” he warned.
“San isn’t looking too well out there. Could be she needs this”. He pulled the vials out one by one and placed them back into the cupboard and closed the door.
Colin. An ordinary man. Yet in the breakdown of society that eventually came, he had survived, prospered even. The success that had eluded him before, now greeted him in the new world. Whilst I and others were trying desperately to reach family or friends, travelling miles with the last remnants of fuel and food, he had quietly taken control. I had missed the first few weeks when he insidiously tightened his grasp. He was helpful, people began to recognise him and trust him. He slowly he built his army around him until the control of every aspect of our lives lay in his power.
Colin , an unremarkable man, an ordinary man, a man who until now didn’t know I had survived. My ex-husband and a bastard.
I reached out and swung at him. I missed but he tripped and fell backwards giving me enough time to leap over his sprawled body and take to the corridors. The fear grabbed my throat as I stumbled into the daylight.
San waved weakly from where she lay. “Go” she whispered “just go” as I lifted her up and draped her arm over my shoulder. I knew the paths well and we limped slowly taking the wider path to the left which led down to the river. There we could rest and wait. We would need to leave. There would be no safety now he knew I was alive.
I crouched in the undergrowth and listened. All I needed to do was to carry San over the road and then we would be safe. So near but fate was never going to be on my side. I felt his hand on my neck before I saw him. I felt San fall to the floor. I screamed as the last chance of freedom slipped from me.
“Time to send you both to Coventry, if you survive that long”. His insipid eyes glinted with mirth.
“ Two more for you, Jo ” he called to a large, craggy looking man who stood by a van on the road. “I’ve no use for them. One’s half dead and the other one is more trouble than I’d like”.
He grabbed San and threw her over his shoulder and pulled me roughly to my feet. My feeble attempts to kick and hit were useless, he batted them away and threw us in the back of the van. Two women sat huddled in the corner. We did not speak to each other. I didn’t want to see my fear reflected in their eyes and my heart could not hold their fear. San slumped limply against me.
I think I almost fell asleep, lulled by the quiet. Fatigued and drained I let my eyes close.
It was the moaning that woke me. The moaning and the growling. The wet, sticky breathing. It was the most horrifying sound I had ever heard. I hammered on the van screaming with rage and desperation. The van stopped and the doors were flung open, Jo peered in.
“Shit” he exclaimed before turning and running into the woodland. Whatever they had promised him in Coventry was not enough for this.
I had already decided what I needed to do and even as the older of the women looked to me with pleading eyes, I think she knew too. I whispered “I’m sorry” as I lifted San out and closed the doors locking them inside.
And that’s how I waited for death to find us. In a cool breeze under a canopy of oak trees. The two of us who had entered this world together would leave together as well.
San started shaking first. Her eyes glazed over, and her jaw hung slack. Tears formed in the edges of her eyes. Her body was too weak for even the virus to take control of her fully and she lay on the floor, a macabre puppet, flailing her limbs. I was exposed too, it would only be a matter of time for me, and I held her in my arms , her limbs hitting me uncontrollably but reminding me that even if for only a short time, we were both alive and together. I talked of our childhood. I sang the songs we knew. I stroked her hair. And as her breath slowed I made my final decision. I would not wait any longer. I’d leave with her on my terms.
It’s harder than you think to bite someone else. But I did. Quickly and only enough to break the skin allowing me to swallow a few drops of blood . I thought at least this way, it would be quicker. Then I held her and despite everything I fell asleep, San safely in my arms.
“Lydia”.
I could hear my name.
“Lydia” There it was again, more urgent this time.
“Lydia, wake up”. It was San’s voice. I smiled, the sound of her voice comforting me.
Then someone grabbed my shoulders and shook me roughly. “ Wake up now!”. I opened my eyes quickly, startled. San knelt beside me. Her skin looked warm and healthy. Her eyes bright. There was no weakness, no rabid fever.
“How? I whispered.
“You, Lydia. You did this. “ She showed me the bite mark on her arm. It was healed, barely visible now.
The realisation then hit me. There was hope.
“What do we do now?”
She held my hand, and we stood in the sunlight.
“Run” she said. “We run”.
The End